


nothing is finite (in the evening light)

by Philosoferre



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Fluff, Light Angst, Like super light, M/M, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, billy's impeccable fashion taste, it's winter!, nancy is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosoferre/pseuds/Philosoferre
Summary: "It'd be convenient," Billy adds. He's looking at Steve expectantly, but he's still a little guarded. "And, uh. Road trips, you know. They're supposed to be fun and shit. Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is, Harrington.”Steve finds himself smiling; he doesn't bother trying to hide it. Billy narrows his eyes curiously. "Sure," Steve says.(Steve and Billy go on a road trip to Hawkins for Christmas break. Both of them might be very much in love.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this fic for a good few months now, and it's finally done! so. a bit of notes: for this fic especially, music plays a really important role. i mention specific songs/artists throughout it that help set the mood, and i'll write them all in the end notes if you want to listen to them! 
> 
> also - some of the stuff in here is based entirely on things that happened when i went on a road trip this summer. it's a fun game to guess which parts. 
> 
> title comes from dacre's podcast, which i highly recommend because it's really good! (valentine is my favourite)
> 
> thanks to my sister for supporting this fic and listening to me rant about it, and to harmony for saying "when are you gonna finish the road trip au!!! i wanna read it!!!" and to reylinne for introducing me to hollow coves and other amazing bands.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

The text stays ignored for two days until Steve finally looks at it. He doesn’t talk to his mom much these days, and she doesn’t try and talk to him either. Not since he told her he’d rather go to college in a city where he doesn’t know anyone than stay in a state that just reminds him how lonely he is. How  _ alone _ he is.

He’s never mentioned the part about never feeling like he could actually be himself, but he’s pretty sure that’s better left unsaid anyway. 

_ Hi, Steven. It’s been a while. I hope you’re doing well. How’s California treating you? Your father and I are hosting a Christmas party and we wanted to invite you to come over for your break. Please let me know if you can make it. You’re always welcome here.  _

Steve’s thumb hovers over his keyboard. He reads the text again, and again and again, until the words start to blur together. He hadn’t expected anything different, but it’s still a little disappointing. It still leaves him feeling a little empty. There’s no sincerity in the text, but that’s never been a defining trait of the Harrington family. The last time they had a real Christmas dinner, just the three of them, Steve was nine. 

He sighs, stares at the screen, glaringly bright, and puts his phone face-down on his desk. He doesn’t know what to text back, doesn’t even know if he  _ wants _ to spend Christmas with his parents. He didn’t go back last year, and they never asked. Besides, Billy’s probably going to stay in California. Steve would feel rude leaving him behind. 

He can’t bring himself to admit he’d also feel lonely in Indiana without Billy. Like a part of him would be missing, and it wouldn’t feel quite right; just him and his parents and his big, vacant house. 

Steve ignores the cold, twisting, familiar gnawing at his gut - guilt, regret, anxiety, something uncomfortably delicate he’s not willing to name yet - and turns his attention back to his laptop with a sigh. He’ll deal with the text later, when its implications don’t sit so heavy on his mind. 

Right now, though, he has more important things to worry about. His paper isn’t going to write itself. 

* * *

Steve hadn’t originally wanted to be Billy’s roommate, but back when he was packing his things and moving to a state he’d never been in before, he figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It might be nice, he reasoned, to share a dorm with someone he at least knew. Might be easier than rooming with a stranger.

Billy isn’t the roommate Steve had expected him to be. He’s organized and meticulous, and he does most of his chores without complaints. Over the year they’ve lived together, Steve’s learned that Billy prefers cooking over doing laundry, he has a pretty shit taste in posters, and he likes hogging blankets. They get along considerably well, actually; better than he would’ve thought possible. Billy doesn’t really seem to understand what privacy is - and Steve stopped caring about Billy barging in on him while he’s showering anyway - but at least he doesn’t steal any of Steve’s things. 

They have a nice, domestic routine, and it’s good. Billy cooks breakfast, and on the odd days when he leaves before Steve, he puts the leftovers in the fridge. Steve always makes sure to get a bag of Starbursts when he buys groceries, mostly because it’s Billy’s favourite, but also because it’s usually a good way to win his forgiveness after an argument. They stay in most Fridays, even though they get a lot of invites to parties, and watch Netflix on their shared account, and neither of them ever mention the times Billy tucks Steve into bed when he crashes after a long, tiring day. 

And somehow, somewhere along the way, Steve just… fell in love. 

He doesn’t remember when it happened, what he was doing when he realized it. Maybe it was the day Billy took him to the beach and they kept trying to build sandcastles, and Billy kept laughing and putting his arm around Steve’s shoulder, and he looked like he was born to be framed by sunlight. Maybe it was the first time Steve pulled a successful all-nighter, during a cold week in late September, and Billy had showed up at the library with coffee and a blanket and donuts he stole from the dining hall. Or maybe Steve has always been in love with Billy Hargrove, and he just never knew. 

Steve has a habit of falling in love with people too quickly, he’s well aware. Carol back in first grade, and then John Stamos when he was thirteen. Nancy. Billy. And, god, he really can’t screw this one up. They only just became friends last year, only just started getting comfortable with each other, but there’s still fragile tension between them, and Steve’s so, so afraid of ruining what they have. 

He tries not to think about being in love with Billy. He’s gotten pretty good at that.

* * *

By the time Billy gets back to the apartment, Steve’s stopped working on his paper and moved on to watching compilations of vines he knows by heart. He’s too exhausted to focus on the textbook he has to read; besides, he’s still a week ahead of schedule, so he has time, if he feels like procrastinating. Which he does. 

“Hey, princess, you home?” Billy calls out, kicking the front door shut. “I brought dinner.”

Steve waves in half-hearted acknowledgement as he shuffles into the living room, ignores the way his stomach flips when Billy smiles at him. 

“Where else would I be?” He grumbles. 

Steve wrinkles his nose; the shirt he’s wearing, which he’s now pretty sure isn’t even his, smells like sweat and Billy’s cologne. He should change, probably. But it’s more comfortable than half the stuff he owns, and anyway, Billy won’t care. He never does, whenever Steve accidentally wears one of his shirts, which happens embarrassingly often. 

“Why would I know?” Billy asks, flashing him a shit-eating grin. “Maybe out with Robin. You spend a lot of time with her.”

“Well, she’s gay and you know that, so don’t get the wrong idea,” Steve says. Billy looks at him curiously, head tilted. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Shit. Steve doesn’t know why he said that. He swallows thickly and clears his throat, nods at the ambiguous paper bag on the coffee table. “What’s that?”

Billy keeps looking at him with that weird, unreadable expression, but he doesn’t comment on the sudden change of topic. “Tacos,” he says, dumping out the contents of the bag. “I didn’t feel like cooking tonight, so. They’re authentic, not that Taco Bell shit you like so much.”

Steve shrugs. It doesn’t really matter to him where his tacos came from as much as Billy seems to think. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Billy says. He tosses a foil-wrapped taco on Steve’s lap and settles beside him on the couch, kicks his feet up on the table. “But you owe me a round of shots and like four coffees. Food isn’t cheap, you know.”

Steve laughs, and bits of lettuce fall out of his mouth, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Yeah, okay.”

They argue over what to watch for half an hour, eventually settling on  _ Riverdale _ , the one show they both like to make fun of. Steve only puts up with it because of Billy’s commentary; he snakes a hand around Steve’s shoulders, leans in close, and whispers whatever he’s thinking. Sometimes, Steve ends up with his head tucked against Billy’s chest, and Billy has one hand fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and the other gently carding through his hair. It’s cozy and familiar and dreamily domestic, and Steve likes to pretend it’s normal. That friends act the way they do. He knows, though, that one day he won’t be able to do all this; Billy will find a nice girl, and he’ll cuddle with her when they watch Netflix, and eventually he’ll move out. And he’ll stop touching Steve like-

Steve is startled out of his train of thought by Billy’s warm hand tracing circles on his waist, where his shirt rode up. It almost makes him forget about the inevitable future. 

“Do you see this shit?” Billy gestures at the tv screen. Betty Cooper is currently performing a terrible strip tease to a laughable cover of  _ Mad World _ . “God, her fucking  _ mom _ ’s there. That’s fucking nasty.” He pauses, wrinkles his nose. “I could do way better.”

Steve snorts. “ _ You _ ? You don’t have enough patience to do a proper strip tease.”

Billy laughs, and his hand stills on Steve’s waist. It’s so, so intimate. “You’d be surprised, pretty boy. I’ll show you my moves some time.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat; his heart starts pounding, so loud he’s sure Billy can feel it. He feels like there’s something in what Billy said that he didn’t quite get, something subtle embedded in his words. An unspoken possibility. There’s electricity in the air, on Steve’s tongue, in Billy’s fingers. His touch is intoxicating. 

“Is that Jughead’s  _ dad _ !?” Billy asks, gasping dramatically. 

And just like that, it’s almost as if Billy hadn’t just offered to give Steve a strip tease. Steve pushes the thought to the back of his mind and tries to focus on the show, on its shitty dialogue and the small town that feels so close to home. And if he leans into Billy’s touch, if he imagines that Billy’s tracing  _ I love you _ onto his skin over and over again, no one else has to know.

* * *

Steve gets another text from his mom in mid-November. He knows he probably shouldn't ignore it, that it'd be nice to at least reply, but he doesn't really have anything to say. He doesn't even know if he wants to go to their Christmas party. 

_ Steven, let me know if you can come and when you'll be here. The Williamsons will be at the party with their daughter.  _

Of course his mom has to bring that up. She's been trying to set Steve up with Stacy Williamson for years, even though neither of them has ever shown much interest in the other. Stacy's nice, at least. She has a good sense of humour. 

Steve types out a reply and immediately deletes it. He doesn't want to get his mom's hopes up, but he would also feel bad if he just outright said he wasn't coming over. So instead of saying anything, Steve sighs and turns his phone off, and wonders what Billy's Christmas plans are instead. 

* * *

Steve doesn't even acknowledge Billy when he barges into his room; he just pauses the YouTube video he was watching and swivels around in his chair. He closes his laptop a bit too, just because he doesn’t want to deal with Billy teasing him about his chronic procrastination again.

Billy pops a bubble of gum and sits on Steve's bed, leans against his wall. "Hey, you're going to Shitville for Christmas, right?" 

Steve frowns and shrugs. He doesn't really have an answer yet. "Why?" 

"Well, cause I'm going, so." Billy waves his hand around vaguely. "If you're not planning on moping around here when literally everyone else is gone, I was thinking. We could, uh, go together?" 

His voice is soft, nervous and tense, like he's suggesting something more. Like his question isn't just,  _ do you want to go to Hawkins together?  _ Like it's a confession, quiet and subtle and unmistakably there. 

"It'd be convenient," Billy adds. He's looking at Steve expectantly, but he's still a little guarded. "And, uh. Road trips, you know. They're supposed to be fun and shit. Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is, Harrington.”

Steve finds himself smiling; he doesn't bother trying to hide it. Billy narrows his eyes curiously. "Sure," Steve says. 

It's that easy, he thinks. That easy and simple, to say yes to anything Billy asks of him. He was actually starting to like the idea of not going home for two weeks, but Billy had asked. Had bared his soul and asked Steve to go on a road trip with him. And there was never a single second where Steve would've said no. 

Billy doesn't say anything for a moment, his face unreadable, but then he slowly breaks into a lazy, infectiously happy smile and drums his fingers on Steve's bed. Sometimes, when it’s just the two of them like this, carefree and comfortable, Steve feels himself slip away, forget about the world. Nothing outside his room matters right now; it can’t, not when Billy’s looking at Steve with his bedroom eyes and the promise of something he can’t quite name on his tongue.

All Billy says is: “I’m driving.”

* * *

December rolls around with a heavy rainstorm, and instead of going to their respective 8AMs, Steve and Billy spend the whole day watching true crime documentaries and drinking Billy’s legendary hot chocolate. It’s kind of nice, Steve thinks. It leaves him all warm and soft, because he knows that Billy doesn’t let his guard down like this around anyone else. He doesn’t let anyone else see him in his ratty Target sweats and ridiculously patterned socks, doesn’t share his blanket with anyone else, doesn’t let anyone else make special requests for their hot chocolate. 

Steve makes a lot of requests - cinnamon, Lucky Charms marshmallows, homemade whipped cream - and Billy always obliges, and it’s a nice feeling, knowing that he has something other people don’t. Knowing that this Billy, who snorts when he laughs and sings softly when he cooks, is all his. 

* * *

By the time Steve finally gets to packing, it’s the thirteenth, and he’s slowly starting to regret leaving it until the last minute. Because now he has to spend his one free evening hurriedly trying to find clean clothes, or at least things that are vaguely presentable and don’t smell, while Billy follows him around just to provide snarky commentary. Currently, he’s limited to five polo shirts he hasn’t worn since he was seventeen, one pair of old jeans, and a single sock. He doesn’t know where the other half of the pair is, and at this point, he’s given up trying to look for it. 

“Thank god you don’t travel,” Billy says, from where’s he’s leaning against Steve’s door frame. He nods at the duffel bag on Steve’s bed. “We’re not going to your fucking kid’s hockey tournament.”

Steve flips him off and continues methodically trying to shove things in the bag. It’s a lot harder than he would’ve thought, but he’s not about to ask for Billy’s help. Even though he knows Billy mostly finished packing two days ago, and that the contents of his suitcase are organized like a fucking flat lay. 

“If you’re not going to help, you can just leave,” Steve huffs. He’s considering not wearing underwear until they have to leave, and maybe during the trip too, so he has more to spare. 

Billy just keeps talking like he didn’t hear Steve at all. “Also, you pack like a fucking suburban mom.” 

Without even asking for permission, Billy dumps out the contents of the duffel bag and starts tossing some of Steve’s clothes away, and Steve can’t find it in himself to care where they land. His room is a big landfill of a mess anyway; a few stray clothes won’t hurt. He watches wordlessly as Billy starts sorting through his designated dirty laundry piles, occasionally finding something that isn’t permanently disgusting and folding it neatly in the bag. It’s so domestic. 

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. 

He tries to close the bag before any more harm can be done, but Billy grabs his wrist before he can. His grin is predatory and sharp, but not cold. Not hostile, or unnerving, or uncomfortable. Steve could even say it’s playful. 

“Reorganizing your bag, you dumb fuck,” Billy says. He doesn’t let go of Steve’s wrist, just presses his fingers harder against his skin. “You  _ do _ know you’ll be able to do laundry, right? Like, you don’t need to pack only the shit that’s clean?”

Steve blushes and glances down at Billy’s hand. He tries to yank his wrist from Billy’s grip, but he doesn’t budge. “Yeah, okay, I get it, you know more about packing than I do. Big deal. Maybe focus on helping me get this done instead of being an asshole?”

Billy laughs, but he does release Steve’s wrist, so that is a win. Even if he is a little colder now. “Not possible, sweetheart.” Billy laughs, shakes his head. “But I guess I can do this for you.”

Steve lets out a sigh. “I didn’t ask you to-”

“Well, I offered,” Billy says, and Steve can tell by his sharp tone that there’s no point in arguing. 

He swivels around in his desk chair, occasionally throwing his pens across his room to see how far they get, as Billy packs his duffel bag in comfortable silence. He’s surprisingly good at it, taking his time to organize Steve’s clothes in neat piles and making sure all the space is put to good use. Steve tries to busy himself with tidying up his desk - he feels a little guilty now, because Billy’s unleashed his inner Marie Kondo and Steve’s room is the definition of messy - but he keeps getting distracted by Billy, who has this habit of sticking his tongue out when he concentrates. Sometimes, Steve wonders if he does it on purpose.

By the time Billy’s satisfied with the contents of Steve’s duffel bag, it’s already late, and Steve can hear loud, thrumming bass from the apartment next door - a sure sign that they’ve got a party under way. And it definitely means he won’t be getting very much sleep.

“Well,” Billy says, dusting his hands on his shirt. “How do you feel about tacos?”

Steve spins around in his chair and says, “We had tacos yesterday. Too much at once.”

“No such thing, pretty boy.” Billy grabs Steve’s denim jacket, haphazardly thrown on his bed, and winks at him before he leaves. “I’m getting your usual,” he calls. 

Steve stays in his room after he hears the front door slam shut. He cleans up a little more, still embarrassed about the mess, and then heads to the living room to aimlessly scroll through Netflix. He’s not in the mood to watch  _ Riverdale _ ’s shitshow, and he has a feeling Billy isn’t either. Tonight seems like more of a  _ Blue Planet _ night, anyway. Steve’s too nervous about going home for the break; he just needs to waste some time watching something calming and not ridiculously dramatic. He thinks Billy could probably use a distraction too.

Billy comes back twenty minutes later with tacos and bubble tea, from the cafe across the street. He has a habit of getting sidetracked when he goes to get takeout - last week, he “just happened” to stumble across a French bakery on his way home from their favourite Vietnamese place and “accidentally” bought two whole baguettes; this time, it’s bubble tea. 

“Please tell me you got the good shit,” Steve says, stretching his hand out for the bag of tacos. 

Billy tosses Steve’s jacket on the couch and lets out a mildly annoyed huff. “Harrington, have a little faith,” he says, setting the tea on the coffee table. “This stuff’s the bomb.”

He pushes one of the cups towards Steve and takes his own, casually snaking an arm around Steve’s shoulders. A year ago, he would’ve found Billy’s nonchalant, touchy affection a little weird. Now, he thinks it’s weird if Billy isn’t touching him in some way. 

The other great thing about having Billy as a roommate - he always remembers what Steve likes. Steve’s pretty sure they only got bubble tea once, and they were both probably either way too drunk or way too hungover, but somehow, for some reason, Billy remembered that he likes peach best. Just like he knows Steve’s coffee order by heart, and that he has a deep hatred for anything that’s cherry-flavoured. Sometimes, it feels like there’s something else there, something so glaringly obvious that Steve’s missing, but he can never figure it out. 

“ _ Blue Planet _ ?” Billy asks, absentmindedly chewing on his straw. He has a very noticeable oral fixation; Steve likes to pretend that’s why he’s always staring at his mouth. “What episode are we on?”

Steve clicks on it and says, “ _ The Deep _ . The one with all the scary-ass things.”

Billy drums his fingers against Steve’s shoulders, practically bouncing from excitement. When the narration starts, and the screen is just the massive expanse of ocean, Billy leans in close and whispers, “This one’s my fucking favourite.”

Steve already knows that from all the times they’ve rewatched the series; he knows that Billy goes nuts for the squids and the sharks every time, without fail.  _ The Deep _ was never his favourite episode, mostly because he’s a little afraid of the kinds of weird-ass creatures that live down there, but it’s starting to grow on him. Probably because of the way Billy looks when he sees it, the unadulterated awe in his eyes, how batshit crazy he gets whenever an anglerfish shows up. It’s endearing, and it makes watching the show a little more fun. Steve doesn’t think he’d actually be able to sit through it with anyone else, because no one gets as intense about it as Billy does. 

Steve wouldn’t have it any other way, though. The deep dark abyss is a little less scary, a little more bearable, when he’s tucked against Billy’s side. 

* * *

Steve doesn’t really remember leaving the couch last night, but when he wakes up, he’s in his bed, so he figures Billy must’ve carried him back to his room. The thought leaves him feeling warm and a little fuzzy. He sits up and stretches, adjusts to the bright sunlight streaming through his window, and reluctantly rolls out of bed. The apartment smells like bacon and coffee - Billy must be making breakfast. That’ll always be Steve’s favourite way to wake up. 

He finds Billy in the kitchen, as expected, humming under his breath as he sets plates on the table. There’s bacon and pancakes and toast and mugs of steaming, freshly-brewed coffee. Even if Steve wasn’t hungry before, he definitely is now. 

“Morning, princess,” Billy says, once he sees him. He’s already dressed: ripped jeans and a white button-up, though Steve supposes he can’t call it that when it’s unbuttoned to his navel.

Steve waves and mumbles out a semi-coherent, “Morning.” He shuffles over to the table and rubs a hand across his face. “What’s up with the four-course meal?”

Billy rolls his eyes and huffs. “I thought you’d know what a proper breakfast is by now, god. You’re hopeless.” He nods at the food in front of Steve. “Eat up. I’m not planning on stopping at every gas station we see.”

They eat breakfast in comfortable silence, and whenever Billy looks down at his plate, Steve sneaks a glance at him, takes in his long eyelashes and artfully messy curls, and the faint dusting of freckles on his nose. Billy catches his eye a few times, but instead of teasing Steve like he usually does, he just offers him a small, soft smile. It speaks volumes, but Steve isn’t sure he fully understands what, exactly, it’s saying. The hopeful part of him wants to believe it’s a hint that Billy has a crush on him too; the rest of him knows it just means Billy doesn’t feel the need to be defensive, to put up a wall around him. That’s a good thing, regardless. Steve will take whatever he can get.

He gets dressed after breakfast, and then they have to leave. They’re already running a little late, anyway. Steve offers to help pack their bags in the Camaro, but Billy’s adamant about doing it himself. He makes up some bullshit excuse about Steve not doing it right - Steve knows he just isn’t good at accepting help. While Billy’s making sure the trunk can close, Steve gets in the passenger’s seat and hooks his phone up to the car, scrolls through Spotify until he finds his playlist. He made it specifically for this road trip, though he’d never tell Billy that. He can’t let on that a lot of the songs are about him.

“Well, we’re good to go,” Billy says, sliding into the driver’s seat. He fixes his rearview mirror and turns to grin at Steve. “You ready to be the family disappointment for two weeks?”

Steve snorts. “Speak for yourself, asshole.”

“I meant it as a compliment. All the best people disappointed their parents.” Billy reaches over to pat Steve’s knee. “And anyway, I’m the family  _ fuck-up _ . It’s different.”

Steve ignores that. It’s too goddamn early to get into an argument because Billy’s not the screw-up he thinks he is, his father’s just a piece of shit, and no, he’s not just saying that to be nice. “I have a playlist,” he says instead. 

Billy glances at his phone and huffs. “You really named it  _ take me to the end of the world _ ? Don’t tell me it’s all indie.”

“Don’t judge,” Steve mutters, his face heating up. He presses play as Billy backs out of the parking lot, and Bishop Briggs’s voice croons from the speakers. “And it’s all good indie, anyway. Stuff you like too - stop acting like you’re above this.”

Billy raises an eyebrow and looks at him through the mirror. “Stuff I like?”

Steve turns to watch their apartment building disappear from his line of sight. “You know,” he says, waves his hand around for emphasis. “K.Flay and like. Kelsy Karter. There’s maybe one Metallica song, so you can’t even complain.”

Billy laughs. “Aw, that’s so considerate. Did you add it just for me?”

“Shut up and fucking drive, dipshit,” Steve says, only mildly annoyed. He’s not going to admit that yeah, okay, maybe he did add  _ some _ songs to the playlist because he knows Billy likes them, even if they aren’t what he usually listens to. 

Billy bats his eyelashes and says, in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, “Whatever you want, dear.”

Steve just crosses his arms and pointedly stares at the road. They get stuck in a typical Friday morning traffic jam about fifteen minutes into the drive, and by then, any tension from before has faded. Billy’s even quietly singing along to the playlist, tapping his hands on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Steve’s very close to dozing off the whole time - cars make him sleepy if he’s not the driver, and anyway, he didn’t get much sleep last night. He was too anxious about going back to Hawkins. And he knows Billy is too - he’s picked up on his nervous tics by now. Chewing cinnamon gum, smoking more than he usually does, not being able to focus on one thing for too long. He’s jittery, and normally it would drive Steve up the wall, but he gets it. He’d be the same way, if he had to see fucking Neil Hargrove again. 

He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, about Neil that makes Billy get all tense and hyper-vigilant, but he knows there’s  _ something _ . Billy doesn’t really talk about it, and Steve’s not going to pry if he doesn’t want to open up. He’s heard enough stories from Max, anyway, to get a clear idea of just how big an asshole Neil Hargrove is. Just the  _ thought _ of having to spend Christmas break with him is nauseating. Steve can’t imagine what Billy’s going through. 

By the time they’ve reached the highway, and the homey streets of Westwood are far behind, Billy’s calmed down a little, and he doesn’t seem as nervous as he was before. Steve knows that driving helps him, gives him something to do; it’s why he didn’t argue when Billy insisted on driving the whole trip. Besides, not having to drive means he gets more time to nap, which is always a good thing. 

Steve looks out the window and sighs, watching the trees and buildings fly past. He hasn’t even been in California for that long, but he’s already going to miss it. It’s different than Hawkins - in a good or bad way, he doesn’t really know - and here, he’s always felt more free to be himself. To explore things he couldn’t back home, to meet people he wouldn’t have ever dreamed of. And the beach - god, he loves the beach. He loves it when Billy drags him along on spur-of-the-moment trips down to El Matador, loves spending hours at Manhattan making up ridiculous stories about the people they see, loves it when Billy tries to teach him how to surf and they just end up getting ice cream. 

That’s what Steve’s going to miss most about California, he thinks. The beach, and the way Billy smiles when they’re there. 

* * *

Billy gasps. “Is that  _ Taylor Swift _ ?”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbles and flips him off. 

Billy laughs, and it’s such a nice sound, Steve can’t find it in himself to stay mad. 

* * *

They stop at Lytle Creek, and Steve is glad to stretch his legs and breathe in some fresh air. There's snow on the ground, crunching under Billy's Doc Martens, and puddles of icy slush in the parking lot. Billy lights another cigarette the minute he gets out of the car, leans against the hood and squints at something in the distance. He's already gone through a lot of cigarettes in the past two hours; Steve doesn't say anything, because he knows it's just one of those things Billy does when he's nervous. He smokes more. And, anyway, if Steve pointed it out, he'd be a hypocrite - he can't say he doesn't do the same. 

"You wanna walk around?" Billy asks. He tilts his head up and blows out smoke, and then crushes his cigarette under his boot. 

Steve doesn't really feel like doing much, but he is getting a little tired of sitting, and he knows that if he doesn't stretch now, his legs will cramp. "Yeah, okay."

Billy nods, more to himself than anything else, and Steve has to look away when the sun catches his nose piercing, blinding and bright. Billy pulls on his leather jacket, locks the car, and sets out on the nearby, well-worn path. Steve follows, head down, focusing on the snow and the leaves and not on Billy. It’s a little chilly for his liking; the air leaves a bitter cold in his lungs when he breathes, unfamiliar after months spent basking in the Californian sun. It hasn’t even been that long since he left Indiana, but its harsh winters seem a lifetime away. Like most things about Hawkins. There’s just something about the sprawling expanse of Los Angeles that makes Hawkins feel like a distant dream, something he can't quite remember but can't quite forget. 

He doesn’t really mind, though. Not when Billy’s tugging his hand and the sky is blue, blue, blue.

* * *

After driving for another hour, silent except for Billy’s incessant drumming on the steering wheel and Steve’s playlist, they stop at a city Steve doesn’t think he’s ever heard of. Barstow, the welcome sign helpfully informs him. It’s kind of pretty out here; Steve thinks, maybe, when he has more time, he’d want to come back. 

“Starbucks?” Billy asks, but he’s already parking the car right beside the building, so the question is kind of pointless. “But if you get anything that’s not actually coffee, you’re paying.”

Steve shrugs. He doesn’t really mind - and anyway, if he pays, he can get a cake pop or two. Billy never lets him, says it’s just more unnecessary calories. Whatever. Some people actually want to enjoy their lives. 

“Okay,” Steve says. He stretches as he gets out of the car, ignores the way Billy’s eyes immediately go to the strip of exposed skin above his jeans because it doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just Billy being his usual shameless self. 

But Billy has this weird look on his face, a frustrated sort of frown, and he’s grinding his jaw like there’s something he wants to say but just can’t get out. He’s been like that a lot lately, now that Steve thinks about it. Always looks like he’s keeping a secret that’s tearing him apart. Steve wants to ask what it is, but he doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want Billy to think he has bad intentions and get all defensive. Especially not on their road trip-slash-vacation, which is supposed to be nice and fun and light-hearted. Four days to relax before they face their respective hells. So he doesn’t bring it up, and he follows Billy into the Starbucks instead.

The other weird thing: Billy doesn’t even  _ like _ Starbucks. He talks about it all the goddamn time, never stops complaining about the quality of their coffee and the, quote unquote, “universal grossness” of the caramel frappuccino Steve likes. He says it’s a vomit-inducing kind of sweet, but Steve has never cared much for his opinion because he literally only drinks cold brew. Every time Steve suggests heading to Starbucks - between classes, after the one time Billy came with him to the LGBT club but never went back because everyone got on his nerves - Billy gives him his tired soccer mom look and says,  _ “Steven, what makes you think I want to drink piss?” _ And this time, oddly enough, it hadn’t even been Steve’s idea in the first place. 

“Is there any reason we’re going to Starbucks and not, like, some artsy cafe?” Steve asks. He keeps his gaze on the menu, pretends to be considering his options even though he knows what he’s going to order. Not a caramel frap, because fuck Billy’s teasing, he doesn’t need to deal with that shit right now. He’s going to try the cold brew. Be spontaneous. 

“You mean, a place with actually good coffee?” Billy shrugs. “Well firstly, it’s too much of a hassle to look for one, and secondly, caffeine is caffeine, so. Guess you’ll just have to deal with me complaining.”

Steve rolls his eyes to mask the fact that he doesn’t mind at all. He likes listening to Billy’s voice, so he could literally say whatever he wanted and Steve would be content. Not that he’d ever say that, of course. 

After they order - a nitro cold brew for Steve, and, unsurprisingly, a venti iced coffee for Billy - Steve’s a little surprised when Billy pulls out his wallet. He thought he was supposed to pay. This totally threw him off his game.

“Uh, what the hell?” Steve asks, blinks until he’s sure he’s not imagining it.

Billy just lets out a sigh and says, “Cold brew still counts as coffee, and I said you’re paying only if you get something that isn’t. You got lucky, pretty boy.”

“I really don’t mind paying, though,” Steve says. He knows he probably comes off as, like, desperate to pay or something, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not that he  _ wants _ to pay, it’s just- he hadn’t expected Billy to, is all. 

“Then next time,” Billy says, handing cash to the barista and flashing her a patented charming smile, “order something that isn’t coffee.”

Steve crosses his arms and huffs. If that’s the game Billy’s going to play, then fine, he’ll bite. He’ll get a fucking Teavana the next time they stop at Starbucks, something that has absolutely no coffee in it. And he’ll get to pay, and the world will make sense again. To be honest, Steve doesn’t even know why it’s so important to him. Maybe he just really likes one-upping Billy. It’s probably because he has a shit ton of money lying around and he wants to put it to good use, like buying things for the boy he has a massive crush on. 

“You  _ do _ know I got cake pops, right?” Steve asks, as they’re waiting for their drinks. “Cause I wasn’t expecting-”

“I know what I fucking paid for, Harrington,” Billy says, rolls his eyes fondly like Steve’s the biggest idiot in the entire world but he’s his idiot, so it’s okay. “And anyway, this is technically a vacation, so I’ll let you get your fucking cake pops. At least tell me you got the good ones.”

That’s Billy’s way of saying he wants one and he’s definitely going to steal it when Steve isn't paying attention. 

“Chocolate,” Steve confirms. “And birthday cake.” Billy makes a face. “Don’t give me that look, you haven’t even tried it yet.”

“Yeah, because the only thing that tastes like birthday cake that’s actually good is birthday cake,” Billy says.

Steve blinks at him and says, slowly, “Billy, it’s all the same batter.”

Billy waves his hand around vaguely. “Well, the form it comes in matters, okay? It’s like, strawberry-flavoured shit doesn’t taste nearly as good as real strawberries. Same thing.”

“It’s not even remotely close,” Steve says.

“Same  _ concept _ , Steven.” Billy shoves Steve’s drink in his hand and abruptly turns to leave. Just like that, their strangely heated argument about  _ birthday cake _ is over. “Come on, princess, we have places to be.”

* * *

Billy does complain about his coffee, as expected, and Steve falls asleep halfway through his tirade. He doesn’t mean to, honestly, but he’s just so tired all of a sudden, so he closes his eyes for five minutes, and the next thing he knows, they’re parked at a Krispy Kreme, and Billy isn’t in the car. Steve figures it’s probably a piss stop - though he wonders why they’re not at a gas station instead of a donut shop - so he stretches, yawns, and closes his eyes again, only to be aggressively jostled awake. 

“What?” Steve asks, voice groggy. He rubs his eyes and sighs.

Billy’s leaning over him, blocking all the sunlight. One hand is on Steve’s shoulder, ready to shake him senseless; the other’s holding a bag that looks suspiciously like it’s got food in it. Steve wasn’t even hungry before, but he could always go for a donut. 

“You’ve been asleep for like three fucking hours, you know?” Billy says, sounding only mildly irritated. Obviously Steve doesn’t know how long it’s been, because he was asleep. “And I was talking, so that was rude of you.”

“Sorry.” Steve isn’t sorry at all. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it.

Billy huffs and shoves the mysterious food bag into his hands. “Whatever. I got you a donut, I figured you’d be hungry. You should eat, anyway. It’s cake batter.”

Steve is touched that Billy got him something, even though he fell asleep while he was talking and theoretically never needed to know they stopped at a Krispy Kreme. It’s a nice gesture. “I thought you said things that taste like cake but aren’t actually cake are gross?” 

“It’s for you, dipshit,” Billy says. “I have good taste.”

“Asshole,” Steve mutters, instead of the  _ thank you _ on the tip of his tongue. 

Billy seems to get what he means. He ruffles Steve’s hair and says, “You’re welcome.”

Steve manages to stay awake until they reach Flagstaff, where Billy’s apparently booked a room for the night. He eats his donut and drinks the remains of his room-temperature cold brew, and passes the time by looking out the window like some angsty emo teenager and listening to his playlist. He hopes Billy isn’t paying too much attention to it, because some of the songs are very obviously about him. He probably should have thought more carefully about what he put on it, but at the time, it hadn’t seemed important. It hadn’t occurred to him that Billy, who’s smarter than he lets on, would listen to sappy love songs like  _ King of Nothing _ and immediately figure out that Steve’s in love with him. But maybe, he thinks, it’s a good thing; those lyrics can say all the things he’s not brave enough to say himself. 

Their motel looks a little worn-down, but it’s good enough for a single night, and it isn’t literally falling down, so Steve isn’t complaining. He stays by the car while Billy checks them in, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. It’s colder than California was; the air is chilly, and there’s way more snow on the ground. Steve thinks about Billy and his unbuttoned shirt, and wonders if he’s cold. He’s never been to Arizona, so he takes the time to look around, try and get a glimpse of any nearby restaurants or cafes or gas stations, because he’s pretty sure Billy’s going to need to fill up before they leave. It reminds him a little of winter back in Hawkins - fluffy, blindingly white snow and evergreen trees and blue skies. His bomber jacket’s a little too thin and it doesn’t block out the wind as much as he’d like, but he’s too tired to search for his coat in the trunk. He’ll just suffer until they get to their room, and then he’ll turn up the heating and wrap himself in a blanket burrito. That’s a good plan. 

Steve looks at the motel’s lobby until he sees Billy, who’s probably freezing but, as always, opts to look nice instead of being warm. His jacket is still unzipped and his shirt isn’t buttoned up any more than it was when they left this morning. Steve shakes his head and lets out a quiet laugh. 

“So, there’s a tiny problem,” Billy says, fidgeting with the room key. It’s an actual goddamn key. Steve can’t believe this. “Well, it’s not a  _ problem _ , it’s more of a mix-up, but, um.” He pauses, gives Steve a small smile. “Uh, you see, apparently when I said I wanted a room for two people, they thought I meant, um, like- like we’re  _ dating _ or some shit, so. Uh. Basically, there’s only one bed.”

Steve’s stomach drops. It’s not that he has a thing against sleeping with Billy, because he doesn’t; they fall asleep together all the time. The problem is, it’s always unintentional, and it’s always on the couch. Except for that one time Steve accidentally fell asleep in Billy’s bed when they were trying to pull an all-nighter, but that doesn’t count. This time, though, it’s intentional. And they’re going to be sharing a  _ bed _ . On  _ purpose _ . Like, both of them will be fully conscious and probably sober and they’ll have to sleep on the same bed, with the same blanket, and even if it’s a king size, Steve knows from experience they’ll end up cuddling anyway. Billy’s a cuddler, but he doesn’t like anyone knowing that. Steve knows, though. He fucking knows because they’ve fucking cuddled before. And sure, that makes things a little less awkward, but. It’s still a terrible situation. 

Steve cannot believe he’s going to have to share a goddamn bed with Billy fucking Hargrove, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

“Are you sure?” Is all he manages to ask. 

Billy nods solemnly. “Yup. I double-checked. It’s the only room they have, anyway. Apparently.”

The motel sure doesn’t look booked-out; the parking lot is practically empty, apart from three other cars and a van with peeling paint. 

“Oh,” Steve says, voice quieter than he intended. “Okay. That’s- it’s fine. Right? We sleep together all the time, it’s not… different.”

That came out a lot weirder than he meant it to be, but Billy gets what he’s trying to say. If he can convince Billy that this isn’t a big deal to him, maybe he’ll actually be able to make it through the night and not, like, die of embarrassment. 

Billy smiles at him and claps a hand on his shoulder. “You better not kick me, Harrington, or I’m gonna throw you out the window and you can sleep in the parking lot.”

“Pretty sure I’d be dead if you did that,” Steve says, and he can’t help but smile too. It eases his nerves a little. 

Billy shrugs and reaches past Steve to open the trunk. “Wouldn’t be my problem until the morning, so. It’s a win-win situation.”

Steve almost considers not helping Billy take their things to their room - 215, on the upper level, because of course they have to use the sketchy-as-all-fuck stairs - but he feels kind of bad about it, so he pushes past Billy’s macho  _ I can do this by myself, I’m such a big strong man _ attitude and carries his own bag. Billy only looks mildly affronted, but he’s probably secretly glad to have some help. 

The stairs, as it turns out, aren’t as unstable and death sentence-y as they look. And the room isn’t half-bad either, minus the fact that they only have one bed. There’s a tv and an armchair and a decent shower, and the walls aren’t some hideous colour. They’re a nice deep blue; Steve actually kind of likes it.

The first thing Billy says when they open the door is, “I call dibs on the bathroom, I gotta piss.” Steve makes a face and throws his bag on the bed; it bounces precariously. The second thing he says is, “I want the left side of the bed.”

“Okay,” Steve says, shrugging. He doesn’t really care which side of the bed he sleeps on, as long as he actually gets some space. 

The third thing Billy says, on his way to the bathroom, is, “God, the tv’s not centered, that’s gonna fucking annoy me.”

Steve thinks, fondly, that it wouldn’t feel right if Billy wasn’t pointing out what’s wrong with the room. It makes this place feel more like home. 

Billy yells out stupid comments about the layout of the bathroom while he’s pissing and then fixing his hair or whatever, because he always takes so fucking long, but Steve ignores him in favour of unpacking what he needs. His pajamas and a new shirt for tomorrow, and his toothbrush, because maintaining oral hygiene is important. He doesn’t unpack Billy’s things, even though he did consider being nice; he knows Billy gets really pissy if anyone touches his stuff. It’s kind of cute, actually. 

“I think my grandma used to have these exact sheets,” Billy says, once he’s  _ finally _ out of the bathroom. He runs his hand along the edges of the pillow and hums. 

Steve looks up from where he’s trying to organize the mess he made of his things. “What? Probably not.”

Billy nods. “Look, I’m telling you, she had the exact same ones. Every time I went over to her house, I used to make forts out of them, until-” He pauses, the words catching in his throat. Steve knows what he was going to say: until his mom left him, until he stopped visiting. “Well, anyway, the soap smells weird and the tiles don’t match up properly. I bet you like the room.”

Steve huffs. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That you don’t give a fuck about the important things,” Billy says, nonchalantly flopping down on the bed, right on top of all the clothes Steve had laid out. “Aesthetics, you know. The details, the  _ presentability _ .”

Steve isn’t even sure if that’s a real word, but he’s much too tired to get into that right now. “You watch too much HGTV,” he says instead. “You’re starting to sound like David from  _ Love It or List It _ .”

This catches Billy’s interest. He leans back on his elbows, blows a tuft of hair out of his face, and pouts. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m more of a Hilary, you know that. And I don’t watch HGTV that often, I just know what looks good.”

Steve can’t really argue with that - Billy does have Hilary’s good taste and ambition, but he’ll never be as good at dealing with problems as she is. No one is on Hilary Farr’s level, and those are the facts. 

“Okay, fine,” he relents. “But at least get off my stuff.”

Billy rolls over and pushes Steve’s clothes away. He folds his hands under his head and sighs. “What do you want for dinner? I was thinking Panda Express, if we find one. I’m in the mood for lo mein.”

“I’m up for anything as long as we eat it here,” Steve says, kicking Billy’s boots away because he’d left them in the middle of the room. “Lo mein sounds good.”

Billy finds a Panda Express ten minutes away from the motel, and he tries to convince Steve that they should just walk there because exercise and like, it’s not even that far, and bullshit along those lines, but Steve isn’t having any of it today. His plan is to do the bare minimum, and he’s sticking to it. If Billy wants to walk, he can walk. Steve can drive. When he suggests that, though, Billy gets this horrified expression, like it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard.

“You? Driving my precious baby?” Billy scoffs. “Not a fucking chance, amigo. I can’t let her get manhandled by some stranger she doesn’t know.”

“I’m not a stranger, and I won’t  _ manhandle _ your car, Billy, I’m a good driver.” Steve groans and rubs a hand over his face. “Why am I even having this conversation about a fucking car?”

Billy laughs. “Hey, you’re the one who thought I’d actually let you drive. But I guess, if you  _ really _ don’t want to walk… I’m driving, and that’s final. You can have the extra fortune cookies, if you want.”

That’s a pretty good deal, considering Billy always hogs the fortune cookies whenever they get Chinese takeout, so Steve shakes his hand like it’s a business transaction, and he doesn’t even mind that Billy doesn’t trust him with his car. He gets it, sort of. The Camaro was the first thing Billy ever bought on his own - it represents his freedom, and it was one of the only ways he could express himself in high school. Plus, it is a pretty cool car, and Steve would feel really bad if he did anything to it. One day, though, he hopes Billy will trust him enough to let him drive. He’s working up to it.

They head back to the hotel after they get their food at Panda Express, and Steve gets cozy under the blanket while Billy sets the boxes out. They’re still broke college students, so they decided to split all the food to save money, or something. Steve wasn’t really listening when Billy explained his logic; he’d been too busy thinking about their hands brushing when they reach for the ginger beef at the same time. He’s aware of how hopelessly in love he is, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but melt whenever Billy smiles at him like he does at every girl he’s trying to seduce, can’t help but hope that there’s a small chance it’ll work out. 

“Open your mouth,” Billy says, out of the blue. He’s holding a pair of chopsticks.

Steve obediently opens his mouth, and he literally can’t even process what’s happening because  _ Billy’s feeding him noodles.  _ He doesn’t think he was ever meant to compute something like this. What in the actual fuck. 

“Why?” Steve asks cautiously, around his mouthful of noodles. 

Billy shrugs and says, “They fell on the bed.”

Steve tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work out. He swallows the noodles that probably have gross germs on them before talking. “Ah, that explains it. For a split second, I thought you were being nice.”

“I was being nice,” Billy says, using the same chopsticks to shove way too much noodles in his own mouth. “I could’ve eaten them myself, but I didn’t. You’re welcome.”

“You’re so fucking nasty,” Steve says, but he’s laughing, and he doesn’t really care about the hotel-bed-noodles anyway. 

“That’s why I’m so likeable.” Billy winks at Steve too, which definitely does not help. 

Before Steve can say anything to that - not that he can think of what to say, anyway - he turns on the tv and flicks through the channels until he finds  _ Jeopardy _ . It’s not Steve’s favourite show, but Billy makes it bearable. He’s pretty good at it, too, which doesn’t hurt. Steve knows that Billy doesn’t like people knowing he’s smart, that he pretends the worn books lying around the apartment are actually Steve’s whenever they have people over although everyone knows Steve’s a nursing major and wouldn’t spend his non-existent free time reading Jane Austen, that he brushes off people saying,  _ wow, you’re really smart _ like it means nothing at all. He has this weird thing about his intelligence, like he’s been raised to believe it’s a bad thing, it’s not  _ manly _ , that he can’t be smart. Steve wonders if it’s because of his dad - he doesn’t seem like the type of person to praise his son’s book smarts. 

So because Steve knows it’s something Billy hates people knowing, he appreciates it all the more that Billy’s comfortable enough around him to actually  _ be _ his smart self, that he doesn’t try and hide it. When he’s not studying or helping Steve study (the smartass), he’s reading book after book on the couch. Sometimes, he doesn’t put whatever he’s reading away until Steve forcibly removes it from his hands and puts it on the very top shelf, where he knows Billy can’t reach it. Steve’s always finding him in uncomfortable positions, too, sprawled like he’s purposely trying to sprain his neck or something. And Billy loves talking about the books he’s reading, loves watching nerdy documentaries and game shows like  _ Jeopardy _ , loves dragging Steve to the library with him just to look at all the books he hasn’t gotten to yet and  _ the pretty covers, Harrington!  _

Steve doesn’t consider himself very smart, but he knows Billy is, and he likes seeing Billy embrace it. He likes that Billy feels like he can be himself around him. It’s probably part of the reason why his crush never died down, why it only keeps growing stronger. Because once he dug below the surface, from the day he first saw Billy sitting on the floor, in the middle of organizing the bookshelf in the living room, completely engulfed in some random novel he’d found - Steve realized that Billy Hargrove wasn’t so bad after all.

* * *

“Get off my side of the bed, Jesus,” Billy says, sighing like he’s said this a million times before. 

He yanks the blanket from Steve and he lands with a surprised  _ oomph! _ on the very edge of the bed. When Steve pushes himself up and scoots back over to not fall, he finds that Billy doesn’t even look the slightest bit remorseful for almost maybe causing his death. Sometimes, he really is the most stone-cold bitch Steve’s ever met. 

“You’re just gonna end up on my side anyway,” Steve huffs. “We both know that.”

Billy scoffs. He’s not wearing a shirt, because apparently it isn’t too cold for him to be his usual borderline-exhibitionist self. It’s way too distracting. Steve tries his best not to stare at Billy’s perfectly tanned skin and chiseled abs, but it’s hard. It takes a lot more effort than he can spare.

“The cuddling just  _ happens  _ involuntarily, Harrington,” Billy says. “It’s not like hugging you is my endgame.”

“Ouch,” Steve says. He wiggles to get under the 10% of the blanket that isn’t currently on Billy’s side of the bed and then rolls over to face him. From this angle, he has a really nice view. “You could’ve been nicer about that.”

“Being nice is for cowards,” Billy grumbles. 

Steve reaches up to pat his bare shoulder. He’s really warm. Maybe that’s why he isn’t as cold as Steve is. “Aw, what a gentleman. Chivalry isn’t dead.”

Billy narrows his eyes at him and says, “If you don’t shut yourself up, I fucking will.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, daring Billy to do just that. And how, exactly, is he intending on shutting him up? With his mouth, perhaps? Is he planning on kissing-

“Turn the tv off if you’re not gonna watch it,” Billy says, abruptly and rudely cutting through Steve’s train of thought. So that’s a no, then. “No one likes  _ Friends _ anyway, it’s overrated.”

Steve takes that to mean Billy wants to go to sleep, and honestly, it’s pretty late so that isn’t a bad idea. He sighs and reaches across Billy to get the remote, careful not to let his hands linger against his side for too long, and then turns the tv off and shifts so that he has maximum blanket coverage. He knows he’ll probably freeze and wake up in the middle of the night because Billy’s hogging the blankets - he says he doesn’t need them, he gets too hot, but all the evidence points to the contrary - but he’s too lazy to try and bargain with Billy now. 

Steve doesn’t know how long they stay like that, curled up on their respective halves of the bed, but the silence and the weird tension between them isn’t doing anything to help him fall asleep. His mind is racing with a million different thoughts, and he can’t focus on any of them. He keeps hearing thuds from the room next door, and there’s some sort of distant whirring noise, like someone has the AC on. And then there’s the light - he’s facing the window, and there’s a fucking bright-ass orange light streaming through the half-closed blinds. If Steve does manage to fall asleep, it’ll be a very long time before that happens. 

“Hey, Steve?”

Steve opens his eyes and stares at the window, at that goddamn light, for a moment before rolling over to face Billy. His voice was so small and soft, like he’s insecure, like he was afraid to break the silence. His expression doesn’t do much to ease Steve’s worry, either. He looks pensive, but in that way when he’s thinking about something troubling, or he has bad news to break, or he’s struggling to say something that’s been sitting heavy on his mind. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. He has this urge to squeeze Billy’s hand reassuringly, but he doesn’t. 

Billy squirms a little, eyes shifty until they finally settle on Steve. He takes a deep breath and says, “Steve, I-” he hesitates, closes his mouth. “Good night.”

Steve can tell that wasn’t what Billy wanted to tell him, but he doesn’t press it. Whatever it is, it must be big, must be important. When Billy’s ready, he’ll say it, Steve knows that. So he just smiles and reaches under the covers for Billy’s hand, lacing their fingers together. 

“Good night,” Steve whispers. 

The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is Billy’s gentle smile, bathed in a soft orange glow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> road trips, at least for me, have this very specific vibe - equal parts nostalgia and freedom and the euphoric feeling of driving down a highway. i hope i've managed to get it across. 
> 
> also, for the end scene, i highly recommend listening to you feel like home by hills x hills. it really helps set the mood
> 
> i hope you enjoy! :)

Billy’s been tense the whole day; Steve can see it in his jaw, in his eyes, in the way he grips the steering wheel. There’s something off in everything he says, in his snappy, no-bullshit tone and his perpetual glare. Steve doesn’t remember doing anything that might’ve made him mad - maybe he’s just annoyed because the motel had the world’s worst breakfast, so they had to find some other place to eat. Or maybe it’s because Steve accidentally elbowed him in the face when he woke up. Whatever it is, it’s making the ride uncomfortable. Steve put his playlist on, but it doesn’t fill the void left by Billy’s silence. It at least gives him something to focus on, even though he keeps glancing at Billy’s blank face through the mirror and wondering what went wrong between the time they went to sleep and the time they woke up. For the life of him, he can’t come up with a single reason, and it’s driving him insane. 

_ Rock You Like A Hurricane _ is blasting through Steve’s phone when Billy finally acknowledges him, as they drive past a cheery yellow sign that tells them they’re in New Mexico. Nothing about this whole situation seems to fit; it’s disconcerting.

“Look,” Billy says through gritted teeth, “I should probably tell you, I feel like you should know this and I can’t keep fucking putting it off, so.” He takes a deep breath; he hasn’t looked at Steve once. “I’m gay.”

Steve blinks once, twice, takes a second to register what Billy just said. He feels like the world stopped spinning, like it has altered its orbit. Everything looks the same, but it feels different. Steve’s heart starts beating a little faster; if Billy’s gay, then that means he might actually have a chance. Holy fucking shit. 

“Okay,” Steve says, tries to keep his voice steady and not sound over-the-moon. “Thanks for, um- thanks for telling me.”

He means it, and he hopes Billy knows he’s sincere. If this is what he wanted to say last night - and, god, Steve had forgotten all about that - then clearly he’s been struggling with it for a long time. He must’ve been thinking about coming out for god-knows-how-long. Steve wonders if he’s ever told anyone else, or if this is a new revelation. Wonders why he felt Steve should know he’s gay. Wonders if it’s something else his dad doesn’t like about him, if he even knows at all. 

Billy gives him a small, tentative smile through the rearview mirror, shrugs, and says, “Well, you know. You came out to me, so it’s only fair.”

That’s obviously not his reason for coming out, Steve can tell. But he’s okay with that, because Billy did just tell him something pretty major, and it’s not his place to judge. He just can’t believe that he might have a shot, that there’s at least the potential for Billy to like him too. Mind-blowing shit.

“I guess,” Steve says. His mind is racing a mile a minute. He glances over at Billy, who still seems on edge, so he tries to lighten the mood. “Just so you know, I’m not planning on facing the window again tonight. You can deal with it.”

“Okay, sure,” Billy says, and he sounds like he’s trying to hold back a laugh.

Their conversation fades, and Katie Gavin croons in the background, softly filling up the comfortable silence between them. Steve doesn’t know how much time has passed, but the next time he looks over at Billy, he’s smiling to himself and quietly humming along to Saint Mesa, and the world feels like it’s started spinning again.

* * *

Steve likes road trips. At least, he’s enjoying this one so far, and he had fun when he and Nancy drove down to Pittsburgh to see The 1975 in concert. He doesn’t know if that even counts as a road trip, but they did stay the night in the city, and it had felt kind of rebellious and freeing at the time. It was the height of his teenage rebellion - spending a weekend in a different state, without parents at home to scold him for staying out so late. God, that was only two years ago, but it feels like it’s been so long. His relationship with Nancy, which had lasted for a whole fucking year, feels so distant, a lifetime away. He tries not to think about her too much, because it still makes him sad, still makes him feel a little empty. He didn’t talk to her for a month after he found out about Jonathan, but he does now. He figured he should be the bigger person - after all, Nancy had thought they broke up on Halloween. He thought it’d be easier to forgive her and move on than live with the pain. And anyway, that was around the time he realized his feelings for Billy extended beyond a friendly high school rivalry; it made sense that he should let Nancy be happy, even if it was with someone else, even if she apparently didn’t picture him in her future. 

It was Nancy, actually, who figured out his crush first. He had expected it to be Barb, maybe, who was the only gay person he knew before college. But it was Nancy, and she had figured it out while they were meeting for coffee before Steve was supposed to leave for California. Steve had mentioned Billy briefly, something about how he was glad to at least have a roommate, and Nancy had given him her all-knowing look and said,  _ you like him, don’t you? _

Steve wonders, as they drive through snowy New Mexico, where Nancy is now, what she’s doing. She’s getting a degree in journalism, of course, he wouldn’t have expected anything else, at NYU. Living in the big city with Jonathan. The last Steve heard from her, she was planning on coming home for Christmas too. He hadn’t told her he was going to be back; he wonders if he’ll see her there, if they’ll run into each other on the street like the protagonists of some Hallmark rom-com. Except, it won’t be like that, because Nancy will probably be holding Jonathan’s hand and she’ll hug Steve but she won’t kiss him like she used to, and she’ll ask if he’s made any progress with Billy. And Steve will smile and shake his head and say,  _ no, we’re just friends, it’s not like that _ . And his heart will ache a little, but he’ll put it aside because Jonathan will look at Nancy like she put up all the stars just for him, and Steve really wants them to be happy. 

He wonders, as  _ Take Me Home _ plays through the speakers, if Nancy and Jonathan are driving to Hawkins, or if they’re taking a flight. He imagines Nancy tucked in the corner of some cute cafe in Brooklyn, writing up an amazing-as-always article on her laptop, a warm mug of peppermint hot chocolate in her hands. He thinks of Jonathan, rushing through the busy streets to give her her scarf, which she forgot again, before he’s late to class. He thinks of them helping Mrs. Byers set the table for dinner, looking like they  _ belong. _

And Steve really wants that, too. Really wants to go home for the holidays and not feel like he got the wrong address, like he’s the only one on set who didn’t get his lines. He wants to be able to bring Billy over, to have his mom dote and fawn over him, to hold his hand while they sit by the fireplace and open presents. He wants what Nancy and Jonathan have, and he wants it so, so badly. It’s a deep desire that he carries in his bones, in his heart, in his very core. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Billy says, glancing at Steve through the mirror.

Steve shrugs. Nothing outside has changed in the past hour; it all feels so static. “Just thinking.”

“About?” 

“Nancy,” Steve says, after a pause. He tries to see if Billy’s expression has changed; his jaw seems a little tense. “I was just wondering if we’ll see her in Hawkins.”

Billy relaxes a little at that. “Did she say she was coming for Christmas?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. 

“Hmm.” Billy sounds thoughtful, but also like he doesn’t really care. 

Steve turns to look out the window again. He hadn’t realized it was snowing, but then again, he was a little lost in his own thoughts. He sighs, listens to Ingrid Michaelson’s voice, tries to remember what he did when he and Nancy went to Pittsburgh. They had stopped twice on the way, he thinks; once at a gas station because Steve hadn’t gone to the bathroom before they left, and another time to get lunch at some McDonald’s they found. They must’ve gotten to the city early - maybe they walked around the streets and browsed those used bookstores Nancy loves, or maybe they just went to the show and talked until it started. Steve doesn’t quite remember it, apart from the fact that they stayed at a hotel with uncomfortably friendly staff, and that’s why he loves road trips so much; they leave him with a  _ feeling _ .

This road trip, Steve thinks, feels like freedom and finally finding a home.

* * *

Steve’s starving by the time they reach Albuquerque; he’s never been happier to see a Burger King in his entire life. Originally, Billy had wanted to take their lunch to some nearby park and eat there, but it’s still fucking cold here too, so they stay in the restaurant and find the one booth that’s getting all the warm air. 

“Here,” Billy says, holding out a single fry. 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Did it fall on the floor?”

“What? No.” Billy scrunches his nose in disgust and shoves the fry at Steve. “It was in the bag. Just take my fucking offering before I eat it.”

“Okay,” Steve says, accepting the fry because he doesn’t think he has a choice. “Thanks.”

Billy ignores him and keeps talking, waving his hand around for emphasis. “What makes you think I’d even do something like that? Do I  _ seem _ like the type of person to give you a fucking floor fry?”

Steve shrugs, stalls by eating more fries. “I mean, you  _ did _ give me bed noodles.”

“That’s different,” Billy says dismissively. He huffs as he unwraps his burger. “Next time, I just won’t give you the extra fry. Your loss.”

Steve laughs. “It’s one fry, it doesn’t matter that much.”

“It does to normal people,” Billy grumbles, and that’s the end of this particular conversation. 

Steve decides to change the subject and asks Billy if he has any plans with Max. He misses the kids; he was hoping he’d be able to take them to the arcade or the mall or something, and maybe Billy would join them. He thinks it’d be nice. 

“I was thinking I could take her out for lunch one day,” Billy says. He offers Steve what’s left of his Coke, and Steve chugs it before he can change his mind. “And I guess her nerd friends could come too, if they wanted.” He picks at the lettuce on his burger and says, voice a little quieter, “They’re not really my biggest fans.”

Steve reaches across the table to jab his shoulder. “What? Billy, that’s crazy, they like you. Will’s like, obsessed with you, Dustin tells me he talks about you all the time.”

“Because I’m cool,” Billy huffs. 

“Yeah, that, but also because he genuinely likes you,” Steve continues. He thinks maybe Billy set off Will’s gaydar or something, and he now sees him as some sort of role model. “Look, I can talk to them, if you want, but I’m sure they’ll wanna come too. Firstly, they get to hang with you, arguably the most badass person they know, and secondly, free food.”

Billy laughs. “Okay, fair point. We’ll go to lunch like the token gay parents with their five adopted kids, and then they can ditch class and we can go see a movie or something. We’ll give them alibis and everything.”

“We’re not helping them ditch,” Steve says, “that’s bad parenting.”

Billy grins at him. He steals one of Steve’s fries. “But think about it - we go to the mall, you can buy them some shit as like, presents or whatever, and then we herd our little feral shitheads to the theatre and watch  _ The Lion King _ or something.”

“That came out in July,” Steve says. The idea of taking the kids to a movie is growing on him, though. Plus, that means more time he gets to spend with Billy. Honestly, the more he thinks about it, the more appealing it is.

Billy waves his hand. “My point still stands.”

Steve hums thoughtfully. “Okay, sure, we can do that. But they’re not gonna be ditching school, we’ll take them out on their last day so they don’t miss shit.”

“Whatever works,” Billy says. 

“Good.” Steve throws a fry at Billy and he just manages to catch it in his mouth. “Find a movie.”

* * *

“This isn’t even a fucking song,” Billy complains, pointing an accusatory finger at Steve’s phone. “It’s just  _ talking _ . Take this off your playlist.”

Steve laughs and scrolls through the songs until he finds something that Billy probably won’t complain about. Personally, he likes  _ The 1975 _ , doesn’t really know what Billy has against it. Then again, he has a very particular taste in music. 

“Better?” Steve asks. JP Saxe’s gentle voice filters through the speakers, singing about saying the things on his mind and being sure of someone, and it strikes close to home. Steve put this song on the playlist because it reminded him of Billy when he first heard it. 

Billy rolls his eyes. “Anything’s better than that shit, but I wouldn’t voluntarily listen to this. Just so you know.”

“Then why  _ are _ you listening to it?” Steve asks. Billy hadn’t told him to change it, so he assumes he can keep it on. “Because I can change it if-”

“You fucking like it,” Billy says. He catches Steve’s eye and clears his throat. “So I’m gonna put up with it.”

Steve doesn’t know what to make of that. He just smiles to himself, warm affection spreading in his chest, and makes sure to put on a Van Halen song when it’s over.

* * *

Not only is Amarillo really cold, it’s also windy as fuck. Steve finds this out the hard way, when he gets out of the car to go to Starbucks and almost gets whacked by the door, which refuses to stay open long enough for him to slip by. Billy laughs at him the whole time he struggles with it, so Steve doesn’t get him a venti cold brew like he wanted. Billy’s face is the funniest thing in the world when he sees it’s just a grande.

“You’re a terrible person,” Billy says, but he accepts the drink anyway.

Steve just sips his dragonfruit refresher and sighs. “Well, if you had helped me with the door, you would’ve gotten a venti. Karma.”

“Bitch,” Billy says, voice muffled by the straw he’s chewing on. “I feel betrayed.”

Steve shrugs. He’d find this way funnier if he wasn’t currently frozen and his hair wasn’t a wind-blown mess. “Come on, let’s go to the hotel and you can be pissed there.” 

“And spend the entire evening watching  _ Chopped _ ?” Billy shakes his head, but he still opens Google Maps and pulls out of the parking lot. 

Steve smiles, and if it’s a little too fond, he doesn’t particularly care. Billy shouldn’t even be looking at him, he should be watching the road. “ _ Cake Wars _ ,” he says. 

Billy seems to consider that for a moment. “Okay, fair, that’s a good show,” he concedes. “Deal. But we’re not getting takeout.”

“I never said anything about takeout,” Steve says, frowning. 

Billy waves his hand around. “It was implied.”

Steve doesn’t really know when, exactly, he implied that, but Billy’s logic works in weird ways sometimes, so he doesn’t ask about it. Instead, he turns up the volume on his playlist and watches snowy Amarillo from the window.  _ I’ll Be Back Someday _ comes on, filling the car up with an infectious beat and catchy lyrics. Steve finds himself singing quietly - it’s one of his favourites - and when he looks over, he sees Billy drumming along too. 

This is what he’ll remember most, he thinks. Not the snow or the motels or what he wore, but moments like this, like right now. When Billy’s smile seems to light up the whole world, and Steve can’t think of a single place he’d rather be.

* * *

The hotel in Amarillo is, surprisingly, an actual hotel. 

“Huh,” Steve says, looking up at the building in front of them. They’re actually going to be staying at a Best Western. That’s wild. 

Billy raises an eyebrow, daring Steve to say more, and huffs out impatiently, “It was the only place I found that didn’t look like it was gonna be where they find my dismembered body.”

And, okay, that was unnecessarily graphic. Steve shudders, glances up at the hotel and then back at Billy, who looks completely unphased. If he was serious, that’s a little concerning. 

“What kind of website did you look on?” Steve asks. 

“A sketchy one,” Billy says, opening the trunk and pushing Steve’s bag into his hands. “And trivago.”

“You make no fucking sense,” Steve whispers, but Billy’s already halfway to the lobby. 

This time, their room has two beds, but Steve doesn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, it’ll be nice to have more space and not have to worry about getting kicked off the bed; on the other hand, he knows he doesn’t sleep as well when he’s alone. He gets too cold. And anyway, sharing a bed is probably as close to sleeping with Billy as he’s ever going to get, based on the very few times when things have gone his way. On the plus side, though, having his own bed means he can use the entire blanket to make a blanket burrito. 

“It’s like they’ve never heard of complementary colours,” Billy says, dumping his jacket on the bed closest to the door. 

Steve doesn’t see the problem with the blue-brown-green scheme they’ve got going on, but Billy is taking an art theory class, so he probably knows what he’s talking about. 

“You’re being suspiciously quiet,” Billy says, eyes narrowed and head tilted. He tosses his suitcase on the bed by the window, like he remembers Steve saying he doesn’t want to be near it tonight. It’s an oddly sweet gesture. “I call bullshit.”

Steve just shrugs and takes off his jacket, scratches his neck. The room is stiflingly warm. “Well, you know, you’re the one with the art theory knowledge.”

Billy looks up from where he was unpacking, his hand frozen on a shirt. He blinks and says, slowly, “Art theory - you mean my  _ philosophy _ class?”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Steve whines, flopping on the bed and burying his face in a pillow. “It’s got a misleading name.”

“I’ve never drawn anything in my entire life,” Billy says, looking like he still can’t believe Steve thought art theory meant art. He’s probably talked about this class before, probably threw his textbook in Steve’s direction once or twice; it’s not his fault he doesn’t remember everything. “Minus the dick in the bathroom, of course.”

This piques Steve’s attention. He leans up and brushes stray hair out of his face. “What dick? What bathroom?”

“You know,” Billy says, making vague hand gestures. When Steve doesn’t respond to that, because he obviously does not know, he turns and grins. “You don’t know about it? I drew a massive dick in the staff bathroom at Hawkins High. Like, it took up the whole fucking wall. And I mean, obviously I drew smaller ones in the boy’s bathroom, but this was my best work. Carol almost put it in the yearbook.”

Steve blinks and nods. He remembers hearing Carol and Tommy tell him something about it - they kept trying to get him to go see it, because  _ it’s so much funnier in person Steve, just come on _ \- but he hadn’t paid much mind to it. That must’ve been around the time when he realized there were more important things than the dumb shit high school kids did, when he stopped accepting invites to parties and giving a fuck if he was the reigning Keg King or not. 

“You were such an ass,” Steve says, but he’s laughing anyway because this is the fucking funniest thing he’s ever heard. 

“It was my legacy gift,” Billy says, and he’s laughing too.

Steve sighs, looks up at the flaky popcorn ceiling. “I fully believe that. Only you, Hargrove.”

Billy says something along the lines of, “Yeah, I’m pretty special,” and then their conversation lulls, replaced by a comfortable silence. 

It’s getting dark outside, but Steve doesn’t really feel like having dinner just yet. Or watching tv until they fall asleep. He kind of wants to do something, like take a stroll around a park or go see a museum, but the problem is, whatever he thinks of would feel too much like a date. And, yeah, he knows it definitely  _ wouldn’t _ be a date because Billy seems like the type of person who would’ve made it clear if he has feelings for him, but some part of him would hope that every touch and every smile means  _ more _ . Because now that Steve knows Billy’s gay, he can’t help but hope he has a chance, that maybe he’s severely misinterpreted every interaction they’ve ever had. And he knows he’d probably die and leave this plane of existence if they go see a movie and Billy puts his arm around his shoulder, or if they end up holding hands because it’s scary. 

“You really need to shower,” Billy says, out of the blue, scrunching his nose. “You smell.”

And just like that, Steve’s rattled out of his much more pleasant train of thought. He had been planning on showering anyway, because hygiene is important and all that; he might as well go now, before Billy can complain again. Besides, he needs some time alone. If he doesn’t get any today, he thinks he’ll actually end up killing Billy. 

“I was gonna go anyway,” Steve grumbles, grabbing his pajamas out of his bag. 

Billy just nods and grins like he doesn’t believe him. “Yeah, yeah. Stop stinking up the room.”

“Hilarious,” Steve deadpans.

The bathroom is small, and Steve has to crouch to not hit the shower head, and the water pressure is a little too weak, but it’s good enough. It’ll have to do. At least the shampoo is nice; it smells faintly of tropical fruit. Steve kind of forgot to bring his own. Billy didn’t forget, because he’s so meticulous about his packing, but it’s the one thing he’s never willing to share, so there’d be no point asking to borrow it anyway. 

Even though it’s definitely not the best shower he’s ever had, Steve still finds himself drifting off and getting lost in his own thoughts and the feeling of warm water running down his back. Sometimes, he still can’t quite believe this is what his life is now, that out of all the people in the world, it’s Billy Hargrove he’s with. He can’t believe all the times Billy’s turned down parties just to stay home and watch shitty shows with him. The Billy he knew from Hawkins was basically a staple at any good party - he never missed a single one. Steve wonders if maybe he’s just matured, realised he needs to focus more on studying and less on breaking keg stand records. Or maybe - and now that he thinks about it, it’s a much more plausible option - Billy’s just never had any other way to escape, that he only ever felt like he fit in when everyone around him was shitfaced and high on house music. It makes him sad, because he knows now that Billy’s actually a pretty great person, underneath all the assholery and behind all his walls. He’s got a marshmallow core and a heart of gold, and it makes Steve so, so weak. 

His train of thought is interrupted by Billy knocking aggressively on the door and yelling something he can’t make out. Sighing, Steve turns off the water. It’s a miracle he got even five minutes alone.

“Oh, damn,” Billy says, the second Steve leaves the bathroom. And then he wolf-whistles.

Steve blushes and ducks his head, his still-wet hair falling in his eyes. “Oh, shut up,” he mumbles. “Don’t be gross.”

He’s in his ratty pajamas, for fuck’s sake. This is definitely  _ not _ a sexy look.

Billy just winks at him and says, “Freedom of speech.”

Steve can’t really argue with that.

* * *

They end up spending most of the evening at Chipotle because Billy got heated when Steve brought up his one ridiculous professor, and then they got into an argument about whether or not  _ Romeo and Juliet _ is even that good - Steve doesn’t have much of an opinion on it, mostly because he’s pretty sure everything he learned in English went over his head, but he likes seeing Billy get really passionate about something, likes the way his eyes light up. Steve likes seeing him happy.

“Did you ever even read it?” Billy asks, as they head out into the brisk night air.

It’s cold, so Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to pick up his pace to get to the car faster, even though he knows it probably won’t be any warmer. His breaths come out in puffs of white. 

“I probably did at some point, but I don’t remember,” he says. “I did watch  _ Gnomeo and Juliet _ , though. “

Billy pauses and looks at him like that’s the worst, most horrifying thing he could’ve possibly said. “Then why the fuck am I having this conversation with  _ you? _ ”

Steve doubles over with laughter, holding his hand out to make sure Billy doesn’t leave without him. “Wait, wait, Billy, wait, oh my god. I’ve seen  _ Romeo + Juliet _ too.”

“Leo or Claire?” Billy asks, raising an eyebrow like he doesn’t quite believe Steve. 

“Both,” Steve says, affronted that Billy just expects him to choose. Billy keeps giving him an unimpressed look. “But, uh. Leo, because of  _ Titanic _ . Irresistible puppy eyes, you know?”

Billy hums, voice low and dangerously rough. “I had a phase, too.”

Steve waves his hand around vaguely. “I wouldn’t say it was a phase, exactly,” he says, oddly uncomfortable about his weird celebrity crush. “I mean. ‘90s Leo still makes me swoon.”

“That’s a fair point,” Billy says, and then he gestures at the Camaro. “Now get in the car, Rose. I wanna fuckin’  _ sleep _ .”

* * *

For all his complaining about needing to sleep and being tired, Billy’s the one who turns the tv on the minute they get back to the hotel. And he gets pissy whenever Steve tries to steal the remote because goddamit, he will literally  _ die _ if he has to see another episode of  _ House Hunters International. _

“Oh, look, another white girl who doesn’t have a job,” Steve groans, pressing his face against a pillow to muffle his scream. “What’s the budget? Fifteen million?”

Even though Steve can’t see him, he knows Billy’s making a face. He sounds annoyed when he says, “It’s only one million, dipshit. And she does have a job, she sells vegan candles on etsy.”

Well, okay, Billy could’ve lead with that. Finally, something remotely interesting. Steve doesn’t even know what a vegan candle is, but if that’s what this woman makes for a living, he’d love to find out what she thinks about an open-concept apartment. 

Steve sits up and throws his pillow at Billy to get his attention. “What does her husband do?”

“Oh, you’re back with the heteronormativity, huh?” Billy teases. He doesn’t even look in Steve’s direction; he’s fully and shamelessly invested in the show. 

“Oh my god, it’s  _ House Hunters, _ ” Steve whines. 

“That’s a fair point,” Billy says. He nods at the tv - the man on the screen is definitely out of his wife’s league, like most HGTV husbands. “He’s a professional photographer. He has a blog.”

“Ah, makes sense,” Steve says sagely. So he’s going to be one of  _ those _ .

The episode definitely isn’t disappointing. Jenny and Paul - how basic can they get? - want to move to Paris, but neither of them know a single word of French, and they’re looking for the kind of penthouse you’d find in Manhattan. By the time they need to make their decision, Steve and Billy have gotten into a stupid, heated argument about the options. Jenny, like Steve, prefers the first house because of its central location and big windows, but Billy and Paul like the third house because it’s fucking  _ open-concept _ .

“You’re seriously siding with Paul?” Steve says, waving angrily at the tv. “The guy who couldn’t tell the walls were off-white?”

Billy huffs. “Well, that’s a minor mistake. He’s dumb, yeah, but I can forgive that. And anyway, having space is more important than one bay window.”

“What’s with you and open-concept, huh?” Steve asks. This seems to happen every time they watch HGTV. He’s going to ignore the comment about the bay window, because if Billy had been actually paying attention, he’d know it was two, not one.

“It feels less cramped, Steven,” Billy says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Looks better too.”

Steve sighs. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. We both know they’re gonna go with house number two.”

As expected, Jenny and Paul do choose the second house, which makes both Steve and Billy groan. It’s in the fucking suburbs, and almost every appliance needs to be replaced, and there’s probably mold in the attic. The people on this show are a disappointment every time. Steve doesn’t even know why he watches it anymore. 

“Hey, what do you think about sleep?” Billy asks. He frowns at the tv and flips through the channels until he finds something decent to watch. 

“As a concept?” Steve flops down on his bed and tucks a hand behind his head. If he focuses hard enough, he can hear the people in the room above them. 

Billy lets out a long, tired sigh. “No, dumbass, I  _ mean _ , I think we should go to sleep. I have, like, eight more hours to drive tomorrow and it won’t help anyone if I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Good night, then.”

Billy’s voice is soft. “Good night, pretty boy.”

The room is eerily quiet when Billy turns off the tv, and it gets more unbearable once it’s just them and the dark and the quiet patter of footsteps from the hall. Steve tosses and turns, kicks off his blankets and then pulls them back up. He can’t seem to find a comfortable position, and his mind keeps racing. He’s too awake to try and go to sleep - and it’s so annoying, because he can hear Billy snoring and that’s just rubbing it in. Steve buries his face in his pillow, sighs, and tries to think of beaches at sunset instead of what Billy’s kisses would taste like.

By the time Steve starts feeling sleepy, and his limbs are heavy on the mattress and his mind has finally quieted down, it’s past midnight, and his serenity is interrupted by someone climbing under his covers, and a warm hand snaking around his waist to tuck him close.

“What the fuck?” Steve asks, voice groggy. “You have your own bed.”

Billy lets out a whiny breath and mumbles out, “Not as comfy as yours.”

“It’s the same fucking bed, Hargrove,” Steve says, but he doesn’t really try and kick Billy out. If anything, the warmth is making him even sleepier, and the steady rhythm of his breathing is kind of comforting, grounding. 

Billy just yanks him closer, nestles against the crook of his shoulder, his chest pressed right against Steve’s back. His words slur together when he says, “Not as comfy.”

Steve knows there’s no point in fighting this, because Billy’s grip on him is already slack and he’s snoring again. So he just closes his eyes and tries to sleep, and he can’t help but think that when Billy was talking about his bed not being as comfortable, he was talking about him.

* * *

The first thing Steve sees when he wakes up is the wall, plain except for a painting of a flower. The second thing he sees is the empty, messy spot on the bed beside him, still a little warm where Billy had been. The third thing he sees is Billy preening in the mirror, dripping water all over the carpet and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. 

“Fuck,” Steve grunts, immediately rolling over to silently scream into his pillow. Goddamit, he’s not awake or prepared enough to deal with that. 

“Oh, shit, I didn’t know you were awake,” Billy says, whipping around to look at Steve buried under the covers. 

He doesn’t make a move to go put on a shirt or something; he just huffs, lips quirked up in a smug smirk, and turns back to the mirror. And then he gets a fucking velvet scrunchie from god-knows-where and puts his hair up, and it’s. It’s too adorable.

“Nrgh,” Steve mumbles. He doesn’t have the energy to acknowledge what shirtless, wet Billy is doing to him, but he  _ can _ text Robin about it. She’ll understand.

When Billy is too focused on his own reflection to pay attention to Steve’s very obvious phone, he snaps a picture and sends it to Robin with the caption:  _ billy’s a vsco girl _ . Because it is a little true, if he thinks about it. Billy’s already got the scrunchies and the puka shell necklace, hidden somewhere in his room, and he has like four vintage band shirts. One day, he’ll even have a hydro flask. 

Steve rolls over and waits for Billy to get dressed and whack him with a pillow, because  _ breakfast won’t wait for you, Steven, get the fuck up. _ Billy’s wearing his red button-up, the one that somehow makes him even more attractive and is absolutely, definitely not something Steve daydreams about, or anything. 

“That’s my favourite,” Steve says, jabbing a finger at Billy’s chest. 

Billy looks a little flushed when he says, “I know.” 

Steve’s pretty sure he’s blushing, so he shoves Billy away and hides under the covers. He doesn’t know what to do with this, too scared of misinterpreting what he said. Billy knows the red shirt is Steve’s favourite. He  _ knows _ , and yesterday he came out, and they cuddled last night, and Steve feels like this should all be adding up to something - but he just can’t quite put his finger on what that something is. 

“Breakfast,” Billy says again, with such finality that Steve has no choice but to heave himself out of bed. 

The hotel’s little dining area is packed with frantic parents and energetic kids, and Steve feels really out of place. The fact that they’re the only ones without children - except for an elderly couple, who look at them like they shouldn’t be here - doesn’t seem to bother Billy, though. He nonchalantly passes by all the tables like it means nothing to him, like he won’t even spare everyone else a second glance. Steve wishes he could do the same, sometimes, but he’s always been too anxious, too aware of whoever’s around him. He guesses that’s what a childhood spent attending dinner parties with Harvard and Oxford alumni, and feeling the weight of their expectations and standards, does to a person. 

“Hey, look,” Billy says, holding up a yogurt cup. “It’s coconut.” He tosses it at Steve, grinning. “For people who have no taste, like you.”

Steve makes a face, mostly because Billy threw  _ yogurt _ at him and he was not prepared. “What has coconut yogurt ever done to you? It’s the best kind.”

Billy waves him off. “That’s blasphemy. Do you want some waffles? I think the machine makes two.” 

“Sure,” Steve says, even though he’s not actually hungry. 

They find a small table in the corner, close to a window with a great view of the parking lot. There’s a draft, and Steve is starting to get a little chilly, but it’s better than having to sit at the only other unoccupied space - right next to the family with four kids, all under ten, who have the same banshee laugh. Billy fills the silence, talking about how excited he is to get to annoy Max again and how nice it’ll be to go back to sunny California after two weeks in Hawkins. Steve, personally, is just glad he’ll get to see the kids again - as weird as it is to think about, he does miss them. Sixteen-year-old Steve would have balked at the idea of spending time with them outside of his mandatory babysitting, but nineteen-year-old Steve is proud to admit he’s an official member of their party. It makes him feel a little less lonely.

“Do you think we’ll have time to buy presents?” Billy asks, head tilted and eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 

“What?” Steve thinks he missed something. He doesn’t remember talking about presents at all. 

Billy waves his hand around. “You know, presents. For the little shits. I didn’t get any, but now I’m thinking it might be nice. Like, I don’t want to come across as the guy who doesn’t buy gifts for people. You know?”

Steve nods, even though he bought everyone’s presents in July, and now they’re waiting at his parents’ house, already wrapped. He has Billy’s gift there too - he made sure it didn’t ship to their place, in case Billy accidentally came across it. 

“So, I was thinking,” Billy drawls, “we could stop by the mall when we get to Hawkins?” 

Steve shrugs, mouth full of the waffles Billy drenched in maple syrup. “Yeah, okay. If you want.” 

“Well, obviously I want to,” Billy says, frowning like he’s confused. “That’s why I brought it up.”

“Right,” Steve says, nodding. 

Billy leans across the table to boop his nose and says, “You’re really fuckin’ weird.” 

Steve just huffs and shakes his head, and he doesn’t know why he’s blushing, but he thinks it might have something to do with Billy’s soft smile and warm touch, and the way he looks at him like he’s the center of the whole fucking universe. They eat the rest of their breakfast in comfortable silence, and Steve wonders if Billy knows what he’s going to get the kids yet. He probably figured it all out months ago, but he would probably never actually buy anything before Steve approved it. Billy’s still so cautious around the kids, like he’s afraid of ruining their friendship, or scaring them off. Steve only wishes he knew just how much they adore him.

"God, what's up with this shitty-ass wifi?" Billy grumbles. He's been tapping on his phone obnoxiously for the past five minutes, frowning, because he decided he doesn't have enough patience to wait for a mall, and he has to buy the gifts  _ right now. _

“It’s hotel wifi,” Steve replies, voice muffled through his mouthful of runny scrambled eggs. “It’s basically mandatory for it to suck.”

Billy’s frown only deepens. “Well, it’s annoying. I’m just trying to fuckin’ buy some presents. Can I not do that?” He taps his phone aggressively. “Why are you banning me from Amazon?”

Steve lets out a huff. The wifi was working just fine for him, and he considers offering his phone instead, but it’s kind of funny. “Obviously, Best Western is against the idea of you being nice.”

“Apparently,” Billy mutters. He looks up at Steve, mouth set in determination. “Do you mind if I ship to your place? I can’t risk Max opening her gifts, or telling her nerd gang. She’s a snake.”

Steve nods and shrugs. “Yeah, sure, I don’t mind.”

“Good,” Billy says, grinning. “I was gonna do that anyway.”

* * *

"Robin says you dress like a lesbian," Steve says, as  _ Carmelo _ blares through the speakers. 

Billy doesn't even turn to look at him. He just frowns through the rearview mirror. "What? No, I don't. She's wrong."

"Well," Steve says, waving his hand around to emphasise his point, "my lesbian friend, who I consider, out of all of us, an expert on lesbians, said you dress like one, so. That's what I'm going with."

Billy let's out an irritated snort. "I don't know what you mean, I've never worn flannel in my life."

Steve takes out his phone and pulls up the text Robin sent him. It's pretty long; she got really invested in explaining why she thinks Billy dresses like a lesbian. "Robin said, and I quote: button-ups are lesbian culture. You can't argue with facts."

"Well, I don't believe her," Billy says. "She's a fucking film major."

Steve just blinks. "You have the  _ same opinion _ about most movies."

"Yeah, but that's different," Billy says. 

Steve reaches over to punch his arm, and he doesn't particularly care that Billy's driving and he's not being safe. "You're insufferable."

Billy grins at him, dangerously seductive and smug. "That's why you love me, babe."

Steve just huffs and crosses his arms, and turns his attention back to the road to avoid acknowledging the blush spreading on his cheeks. He doesn't really have an argument to that, anyway. 

* * *

“So, um,” Steve says, voice a little hoarse. He clears his throat, taps his fingers on his jeans. “What did you get Max?”

It’s too quiet, even with Tesla in the background and Steve’s own voice filling the space between them. They haven’t talked much since they left the hotel, and it’s making Steve feel weird. Unnerved. Billy keeps gritting his teeth and casting sidelong glances and tightening his grip on the steering wheel like he has something to say, something weighing on his mind. But he never says anything. He just looks at Steve like  _ that _ , and Steve doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“You never told me,” he adds. 

He knows what Billy got the kids, because he spent at least half an hour agonizing over it, checking and double-checking and triple-checking that, yes, they’ll like the gifts, and no, they won’t think he’s thoughtless. Steve found it kind of cute, actually, just how much Billy cares. He’d never admit it to the kids, but he does. He  _ cares _ . And, god, if it’s even possible, Steve thinks he might be falling more in love.

Billy sighs. “I got her some of those  _ Wonder Woman _ comics she likes so much. And.” His voice is small and soft and vulnerable when he says, “and, um, a surfboard. I promised I’d teach her how to, um. So.”

That must’ve been before they moved to Hawkins. Steve closes his eyes, imagines Billy helping Max keep steady on gentle waves, laughing when she inevitably slips and encouraging her to try it again. Imagines them laying on a well-worn towel, sand in their hair and sun on their skin, gold like the coast itself. Imagines Billy being happy, in the way he might’ve once been. 

When he opens his eyes, though, he’s faced with the reality of the cold highway, Billy’s silence, and the familiar ache of all-consuming love. 

“She’ll love it,” Steve says, and this time he hopes his fondness shows through every word. 

Billy turns to look at him, and his smile makes the dreary Midwest a little less bleak. He doesn’t say anything, just hums thoughtfully, but his smile doesn’t fade away, and the silence is a little easier to bear, and Steve finds that he doesn’t really mind it at all.

* * *

They stop at a diner in Oklahoma City for lunch. It has a bright neon sign that Billy obviously takes a picture of, and it looks like it hasn’t been touched since 1955, and it’s thankfully pretty empty. There are only three other people there, and not a single one pays them any attention. It’s basically a blessing. Elvis Presley croons softly from a jukebox - Steve didn’t even think those things existed anymore. He thinks he’ll like it here.

“So any idea what your folks are doing for Christmas?” Billy asks, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee and the other holding Steve’s. He’s always freezing, and Billy’s always radiating heat, and it seemed like a good idea. 

Steve shrugs. He can’t focus on his thoughts when Billy’s tracing patterns on his palm without a care in the world, like it’s a completely normal thing to do. And maybe it is, but Steve’s very much in love brain can’t understand that. 

“Oh, probably some stupid party,” he says. Shrugs again. Tries to ignore the way Billy’s soft touch makes him feel. “Like always. It’ll be me, my parents, and like twenty people I’ve never met or heard of. And they’re all gonna get on my back for, like, not joining my dad’s company.”

Billy hums. “And they’re gonna ask if you have a girlfriend.”

“That too,” Steve grumbles. Sometimes - most of the time - he doesn’t know why he ever agreed to go back home for the holidays. The more he thinks about it, the more unbearable the idea becomes. “What about you?”

Billy makes a face. “Eh, I don’t know. I don’t know if I really wanna spend Christmas with them, anyway. Might see if Tommy’s throwing a party.”

Steve frowns. He hates that Billy’s thinking about getting shitfaced with Tommy on Christmas, hates that he finds it preferable to having dinner with his family, hates that they’re the people he has to go back to. Neither of them have even really spoken to Tommy since the summer; the last time Steve texted him was before he left for California. He doesn’t think Billy’s talked to him at all, or to Carol, or Tina, or any of the other people he was “friends” with. It breaks his heart, just a little, that spending time with them is even an option worth considering. 

“You could come over to my place,” Steve offers, lowers his gaze because he knows he’s blushing and he doesn’t want to see Billy’s reaction. “My parents won’t mind. And even if they do, they won’t say anything.”

He looks back up, after a stretch of silence, and is surprised to find Billy smiling softly. He’s stopped tracing on Steve’s skin; they aren’t quite holding hands, but they’re also not  _ not _ doing that. Steve doesn’t think they’ll be able to pretend it’s just platonic for much longer. For a moment, it’s just them and Elvis Presley, and the snow falling outside. Nothing else seems to matter, because Billy’s looking at Steve like he’s the only person in the entire world, and it leaves him warm and gooey and deliriously fond. 

“I don’t think your parents will like me very much,” Billy says. 

Steve’s heart sinks. “They’ll like you if you won’t be a dick,” he says, because it’s better than saying,  _ it doesn’t matter. I like you. _ “Just. Think about it.”

Their coffee is probably cold by now, probably a little gross. Steve doesn’t even remember when they ordered their food, doesn’t know how long they’ve been waiting or how long it’ll take. And he doesn’t really care. It’s not important at all, not as heavy as the confession sitting on his tongue, the confession he almost said. It pales in comparison to Billy’s warmth and the smile he reserves just for Steve.

Billy squeezes his hand and says, “Okay.”

* * *

Billy leans against the Camaro, puffing on a cigarette, eyes trained on something in the distance. He’s wearing a coat, but it isn’t even zipped up, and Steve wonders if he’s cold. If his hands are as red and numb as Steve’s, if the sharp air burns his lungs. He looks as handsome as always, snowflakes collecting in his hair and on his eyelashes, eyes a stark, bright blue against the grey sky. 

It’s starting to get dark; the sun dips behind the trees, casting long shadows on the ground. They’re probably going to get a cold, but Billy had said it’d be worth it. Had said,  _ all sunsets are worth seeing. _ So they’d pulled up to a little clearing on the way to Springfield, and now they’re waiting. It’s quiet out here, much too quiet for Steve’s liking. He’s never been a big fan of silence; it makes him get caught up in his thoughts, doesn’t give him any distractions, reminds him that the world is vast and empty and lonely. 

At least his playlist is still going, filling up the space around them. It’s in the background, barely audible, but it’s enough. Steve can focus on the music instead of his mind, instead of thinking about Billy gritting his teeth and looking at him like there’s something he needs to get off his chest. Instead of thinking about kissing Billy and tasting his cigarette, about cold hands on his waist and snowflake-dotted hair against his skin. 

“It’s nice here,” Billy says, smoke curling out of his mouth in stark white puffs. 

Steve kicks his boots against the snow. “Yeah,” he agrees. “A little cold, though.” 

Billy hums, but he doesn’t make a move to close his coat. He just shifts his weight, crosses his arms, and then extends his hand to Steve with a sigh. 

“I’m kinda hot,” he says. When Steve doesn’t do anything, Billy grabs his hand and entwines their fingers. “It might help.”

“Okay,” Steve says, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s something intimate about holding Billy’s hand as the sun sets and snow falls, something soft and gentle he can’t quite name. 

Billy turns back to whatever he was looking at before and taps his cigarette. “You have a lot of songs about Nancy,” he says, so soft that Steve almost doesn’t hear him. 

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. “What?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Billy says, jaw tense and eyes avoiding Steve. 

“What?” Steve repeats. He doesn’t know what Billy’s talking about, doesn’t know why he brought Nancy-

Billy crushes his cigarette under his boot and looks up at Steve, and there’s something undeniably  _ hurt _ in his expression. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say he’s heartbroken. 

“You must still really love her,” Billy says, and his voice sounds rough around the edges. He pauses, glances away.  _ Made For You _ fills the silence, but it feels so out-of-place, so completely  _ wrong. _ “To have a whole playlist about her.”

Steve blinks once, twice. Closes his eyes, just to double check, just to be sure that he’s not dreaming. Opens his eyes, and sees Billy, looking at him like he’s holding his heart out for Steve to take, like he’s holding his breath and waiting to be saved. He’s so open and vulnerable, and Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been more beautiful than he is now. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be more beautiful.

“They’re about you,” Steve whispers, afraid to ruin the moment. He feels Billy’s thumb press against his wrist, right over his pounding heartbeat, grounding him. “The songs. Billy, they’re all-” he pauses, thinks he might cry, can’t believe this is happening. “-they’re all about  _ you. _ ”

Billy takes a step closer, lifts his hands up to cup Steve’s face, brushes away the tears he hadn’t even noticed. Steve closes his eyes, leans into his touch, thinks about how long he’s been waiting for this, thinks about Billy’s heartbeat and soft hands. 

“Can I kiss you?” Billy asks, tucking stray hair behind Steve’s ear. 

Steve says, voice broken, “Yes.”

Billy tilts his head and slots their lips together, gentle and warm, and Steve can’t even remember feeling cold. His hands come to rest on Billy’s waist, under his coat, just above his jeans. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes and something distinctly  _ him _ , and it all feels so right, so perfect. Like this sunset was made just for them, like the snow is only falling to land where their lips meet, like the whole world has stopped spinning, and this one moment in time is theirs alone. Billy kisses him like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, like he’s afraid of letting go, like it’s the only thing he was born to do.

By the time they part, the sun has already set, leaving behind only a thin sliver of light. Steve turns his head and presses a soft kiss to Billy’s palm, catches his breath. Billy’s lips are red and he’s blushing, and Steve feels warm, knowing he’s the one who did that, he’s the reason Billy’s smiling, he’s the reason they missed the sunset Billy had been so intent on seeing. 

“I love you,” Steve whispers, and this time, it feels right. 

It doesn’t feel rushed, like when he’d confessed to Nancy, doesn’t feel thick and heavy in his throat, foreign on his tongue. It feels natural, like his whole life had been leading up to this moment, like he was always meant to say it now. Like he was always meant to confess his love to Billy Hargrove surrounded by snow and trees and a dark sky. 

Billy rubs his thumb across Steve’s cheek, leans in, and says, soft against his lips, “I love you too.”

Steve kisses him again, and again and again and again, because he can. Because Billy loves him. Because he feels like he’s been chasing those kisses all his life, and he doesn’t mind chasing them forever. Because he feels like he finally belongs, like he’s found a home, and it’s in Billy Hargrove’s arms. 

“We should get going,” Billy mumbles, his face pressed against Steve’s neck, his fingers carding through his hair. 

Steve hums, and yeah, okay, he’s starting to get cold again. He doesn’t really want to leave, though, doesn’t want to have to untangle himself from Billy and wait to kiss him again. But then again, this would be infinitely more enjoyable somewhere warm. 

“One last kiss,” Steve says, tugging on Billy’s hand to prevent him from leaving. 

Billy huffs, but he doesn’t object, so Steve kisses his cheek, lets his lips linger for longer than necessary, feels Billy’s breath hitch. 

“You’re too cute,” Billy says, catching Steve’s mouth for a quick kiss before he gets in the car. 

_ Chateau _ plays softly as they head back onto the highway, and the silence doesn’t feel so suffocating anymore. Steve holds Billy’s free hand, traces shapes on his skin, thinks about how he can still taste Billy on his lips. How, if he closes his eyes, he can feel his kiss. He thinks, maybe Christmas won’t be so bad. Maybe he’ll get to cuddle with Billy in front of the fireplace, kiss him when he tastes like hot chocolate and his mom’s cranberry pie, hold him close as snow falls outside. He thinks about loving him, completely and openly and freely. He thinks about Billy’s hand in his own, and the unspoken promise of a future between them.

* * *

Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to kiss anyone else ever again, not after he’s gotten a taste of Billy’s lips, not after he’s felt Billy’s tongue pressed against his own and seen stars. He’s talented in a way that shouldn’t be legal, and it’s absolutely ruined Steve. 

Billy had barely managed to get to their hotel room without his hands on Steve, and the minute he’d kicked the door shut, they were kissing like they’d die if they didn’t. Steve doesn’t even know how long he’s been pressed on the bed, and he doesn’t really care anyway. It could be mere minutes, or hours, but it doesn’t matter because he’s spending it with Billy, and there’s no place he’d rather be. 

Billy trails kisses along his jaw, grazes his teeth gently against his skin, lets his hand wander down and hover over his jeans. Every touch is electric, makes Steve buzz with want and need, gets him all worked up until he’s begging to be kissed, begging for Billy’s warm hands to dig into his side and leave marks. He curls his fingers in the Billy’s shirt, open and constantly teasing him with gold, taut,  _ beautiful _ muscle, and surges forward to capture his mouth in a messy kiss. He can’t even  _ think _ about the fact that they’re in a hotel room, and the walls are really thin, and people might hear them. All he can focus on is Billy. Billy, Billy, Billy, tainting every thought and every sigh and every breath. 

“Why don’t we- hmm, oh,” Steve says, his words catching in his throat as Billy palms him through his jeans, and yeah, okay, whatever he was going to say wasn’t that important anyway. “Fuck  _ me _ , oh my god, I-”

“Oh, princess,” Billy whispers, downright sinful, “I was getting to that.”

* * *

“Oh my god,” Steve says, letting out a shaky breath. His hands are still tangled up in the bedsheets, but he doesn’t really have the strength to let go. Or clean up, for that matter. He’s probably going to be limping for the next week, at the very least. “I think I’ve lost all ability to walk.”

Billy hums and flops down on Steve’s chest, his breath tickling his skin. “Really? No round three then, got it. I’m actually starving. What’s the time?”

Steve tries to sit up to look at the alarm clock beside the bed, but Billy quickly pushes him back down. “Oof, I don’t know, like ten something,” he says. “I’d know if you weren’t a jerk.”

Billy rolls over and huffs, an eyebrow raised. “Oh, so I’m a jerk now?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He takes the opportunity to steal a soft, open-mouthed kiss before Billy can even say anything about it. “A hot jerk, though. The hottest jerk.”

Billy cups his face and whispers, “Hmm, I’ll take your word on it.”

“It’s your only choice,” Steve says, just as Billy slots their lips together again and shoves him back down. 

They kiss and kiss and kiss until Steve’s lips are sore and bruised and his stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn’t had dinner yet. He kind of wants to just stay here, let Billy kiss him until dawn, but he  _ is _ hungry, and anyway, they have time. They have time to kiss and touch and maybe kiss some more; they’re in no rush. 

“Billy,” Steve says, trying to wriggle out of Billy’s hold. “Billy, we should- stop, dinner, we should-”

“Mm, okay,” Billy says, kisses him again, soft and sweet. 

It takes them longer than usual to get dressed again and make sure they look presentable because Billy can’t seem to keep his hands to himself, always kisses Steve when he’s least expecting it. It’s very distracting, and he’s almost tempted to just push Billy back onto the bed. Almost. Food first, sex later. 

“You’re insufferable,” Steve says. 

He’s fixing his hair in the mirror, goddamit, and Billy can’t leave him alone for one second. Has to wrap his arms around his waist and nuzzle against his neck like the adorable, needy dork he is.

Billy smirks, all smug, and says, “It’s part of my charm.”

Steve turns around, steadies himself with one hand on Billy’s shoulder and the other cupping his face. He runs his thumb over Billy’s jaw, catches the flecks of cobalt in his eyes, just because he can. He  _ can. _ And it’s the greatest thing in the whole fucking world.

“Hey,” Billy says, runs his hand over Steve’s side. “You okay?”

“More than okay,” Steve says, his voice just above a whisper. He kisses Billy, lets his lips linger for a moment before he pulls back. “Come on, let’s get dinner.” 

* * *

They drive around the city for a good twenty minutes before they find an open restaurant, and it’s so late and they’re so tired that they don’t even care what it is. It turns out to be another diner, though this one is decidedly less retro. It’s the kind of place Steve thinks he might have seen in some indie film, with neon signs and vinyl floors and red plastic booths. Elton John sings softly in the background, and the nice, quiet buzz of conversation fills the silence. It’s Steve’s perfect evening. 

“So, um,” Billy says, swirling his coffee around the mug, “tomorrow.”

Steve sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

He’d completely forgotten that tomorrow they’re finally going to get to Hawkins. And he’ll have to spend two entire weeks with his parents, and he’ll be far, far away from California’s golden coast and sunshine. Indiana suddenly seems a lot less exciting than it might’ve once been. 

“You ready?” Billy asks. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, and it’s the honest truth. He shrugs, picks at his food, tries to think about the good in Hawkins instead. The kids, and the snow, and maybe making out with Billy by the quarry like they’re still in high school. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Billy smiles, so bright it makes the diner’s neon signs look dim, and reaches across the table to squeeze Steve’s hand. It’s reassuring, brings the kind of comfort only Billy can. Nancy used to hold his hand, but it never felt quite the same. Never felt like home. 

“Me too,” Billy says. There’s something in his voice, some hidden meaning in his words, but Steve isn’t going to pry. He’ll tell him when he’s ready, when he feels comfortable. 

Steve smiles back, and he can’t help the warm, fuzzy feeling slowly spreading through his chest. He loves not having to hide it, loves knowing that Billy feels the same way, loves going to diners in the middle of the night with him. There’s no one else he’d rather be with, no one else he can  _ imagine _ himself with. 

“I’ll be there with you,” Steve says, and it comes out more like a whisper, like something meant for just the two of them. 

Billy smiles, and he doesn’t even have to say  _ I know _ for Steve to understand. He knows. And that’s enough. 

* * *

When Steve wakes up, the first thing he notices is Billy’s warm arm draped over him, his breath tickling the back of his neck. It’s nice, he thinks, to wake up to this. He could definitely get used to it. And then, when he shifts just the slightest bit, his entire body aches, still sore from last night. Steve lets out a groan and shoves his face in his pillow, hoping to fall asleep again just so he won’t have to deal with how sore he is. 

“Hey,” Billy whispers. 

Steve can’t pretend he’s asleep now. He rolls over to look at Billy, who’s watching him with a sleepy, soft smile and heavy-lidded eyes. He’s practically glowing in the gold light filtering through the window. His hair is a mess, and he doesn’t seem too awake, and he’s absolutely the most adorable person in the entire world. 

“Hi,” Steve says. 

Billy runs his hand over Steve’s side, ghosts over his bare skin, and then presses closer to kiss the tip of his nose. “Pretty boy. You’re so pretty, you know that?”

“You keep telling me,” Steve says, darts forward to kiss Billy, slow and gentle and open-mouthed. Just because he can. 

Billy closes his eyes and whispers, “I love you so fucking much.”

God, Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. To hearing Billy say he loves him, to the way his voice goes soft and gentle. It’s warmer than the Californian sun, lovelier than a Santa Monica sunset, and it leaves him with a feeling he couldn’t get from anything else. 

“I love you too,” Steve says. His hand is warm against Billy’s chest. He doesn’t really want to get out of bed, thinks maybe they could just stay here all day. “Hey, Billy?”

Billy hums. “Yeah?”

“Am I-” Steve takes a sharp breath. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel Billy’s heart. It’s comforting, takes him out of his thoughts. “Are we… dating? Now?”

Billy looks at him like he’s misheard. He blinks, slow and heavy-lidded, and then he breaks into a smile, all gleaming teeth and a sharp, pierced tongue. “Well, I thought that was obvious.”

“Oh,” Steve says, barely more than a breath. He knows he’s blushing, wants to duck his head so that Billy can’t see, but it’s impossible to look away from his ocean eyes. 

“Oh,” Billy repeats, soft and infinitely fond, and it sounds like a promise.

* * *

They leave later than they probably should have, but they’re in no rush to get to Hawkins. Steve wouldn’t even care if they got there at midnight; he has no desire to see his parents soon, or be reminded of just how dull the place is. And anyway, he doesn’t want the roadtrip to end. 

Steve’s been zoning in and out for the past hour, and he wasn’t really paying attention when the Camaro started to slow, but now Billy’s pulling up at the side of the highway, and it catches him off guard. 

“Oh, is this the part where you murder me?” Steve asks, half joking, half nervous. 

Billy shoots him a glare and says, “Shut up, Harrington.” And then he gets out of the car and walks to the passenger side, arms crossed. “Your turn.”

Steve frowns. He’s mostly just very, very confused now. “My turn for what?”

Modern English blares from his phone. Billy stares at him like he should already know. 

“Driving,” Billy says, slowly, like he’s said this before. Maybe he has, and Steve just wasn’t listening. 

Steve blinks. He doesn’t think he heard right. “What’s with the sudden change of plans? Didn’t you say I’m not allowed to drive your car?”

“Yeah, well,” Billy huffs, waving his hand dismissively. “I wanna nap.”

“Okay,” Steve says. 

He doesn’t know if he’s dreaming all of this; the idea of Billy actually letting him drive his precious Camaro seems way too absurd. He must either be really tired, or he wants something from Steve. Not that he’s complaining, though. Steve’s wanted to drive the Camaro since he first saw it pull up in the Hawkins High parking lot - too sleek and flashy and powerful to belong in such a small town. He’s always wondered what it would feel like in his hands, but he never thought he’d get to actually drive it. First, Billy kisses him, and now, he’s driving his car. These are definitely the best four days of his life. 

“Don’t make me regret this,” Billy grumbles, side-eyeing Steve as he heads back onto the highway. 

Steve turns his head to smile at him and says, “Hey, I’m a good driver.”

Billy just snorts, but he’s smiling too, so Steve knows he’s only making a show of being irritated. He closes his eyes and leans back, and within ten minutes he’s asleep. It’s quiet, except for the rumbling of the engine and Metallica - how Billy can sleep through that, Steve doesn’t know - but it’s nice and comfortable. And Steve feels warm and soft and completely in love, knowing that Billy trusts him enough to drive his car. There’s no other place he’d rather be than here, cruising down a snowy highway with Billy Hargrove by his side.

* * *

Hawkins is darker than Steve remembered. But maybe he’s just used to the bright blue of the Californian sky and the sharp green of palm trees. Indiana is all snow and barren trees and murky grey clouds, and everything looked muted and dull, like the colour’s been washed out. The woods seem menacing, almost, just an empty, endless stretch. They pass a few houses, big and sparse, and it all just feels so… lonely. 

Steve forgot how spread out Hawkins is. How easy it is to feel completely alone. 

Billy drives in silence, his hands unnervingly still on the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving the road. His jaw is tense. Steve knows why, sort of. They’re here, and that means he’ll have to face Neil and pretend there isn’t something between them. But that’s Hawkins, anyway. Just a sleepy, middle-of-nowhere town that couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of two men holding hands. 

It's snowing, light and soft, and it makes the place seem a little more magical, a little more lovely and gentle and beautiful, than it actually is. Once, Steve might've truly believed it, might've thought the snow was breathtaking and the town was charming. But now all that waits for him is a dysfunctional family and the bitter way his mother will ask,  _ "So, do you have a girlfriend?"  _ He doesn't know how he's going to answer her yet. He'll probably end up telling the truth; disappointing his parents, again, is easier than pretending he doesn't love Billy the way he does. 

"This place gets worse every time I see it," Billy says. It's the first time one of them has spoken in what feels like ages. 

Steve glances at him, and then sighs and turns back to the window. "I don't know," he says, shrugs. He understands exactly what Billy means; for him too, Hawkins is just an empty façade of what it once meant. "I think it's kind of nice. Like this."

Billy just hums, like he doesn't have anything to say to that. Steve doesn't have much to add either. So he just looks out the window and listens to Valley watches the snow fall, big and bright and so, so pretty. 

* * *

"I still  _ cannot _ believe you let Max get away with that," Steve says, shaking his head. He's trying to make Billy think he's annoyed, but really, he just thinks it's cute. 

The streets are all lit up with Christmas lights, draped on all the lamps and taped up on storefront windows. As dull as Hawkins is, Steve has to admit: main street is absolutely gorgeous in the winter. 

Billy huffs. "Hey, it was for a good reason."

" _ She ditched class, _ " Steve says. His hands are cold, so he reaches out and tugs at Billy's wrist until their fingers are intertwined. He likes that he can do that now. 

"To see me," Billy whines. "It's perfectly valid."

Steve just rolls his eyes and shakes his head again, because Billy does sort of have a point and he's not in the mood to argue about it. He half-expects Billy to strike up an argument anyway, just for the fun of it, but he doesn't. He smiles like he knows he won, hair falling into his eyes and his hand radiating warmth. 

Seeing his parents again hadn't been as bad as Steve imagined. They'd been polite - but still distant - and they'd asked absentmindedly about school and California and, of course, whether or not he was seeing any nice young woman. Steve told them he was dating someone, but he didn't say who. He doesn't know if he's ready for them to know that yet. 

His parents are always out of the house anyway. They're constantly busy going to lunch or dinner or coffee or whatever the fuck, so Steve gets left alone for most of the day. Billy comes over when it's just Steve, and they spend their time together watching stupid Christmas movies and having sex and cuddling on Steve's bed, and sometimes Billy makes hot chocolate. And it's perfect. Steve can't think of anything better. 

It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. Steve’s father is busy doing last-minute work in his study, and his mother was still fretting over the dining room decorations when he left, so he took the opportunity to hang out with Billy. Almost everything is closed - the movie theatre, the arcade, the brand-new Thai place - but Steve doesn’t really mind. It’s nice to just walk with Billy, to hold his hand and kiss him as it snows, without worrying about being seen by the wrong people. 

“Steve,” Billy whispers, tugging them towards a bright and colourful window, pressing his face right against it with wide eyes and the softest smile.

It’s the pet store. There’s a bunch of kittens, fluffy and so, so small, on the other side of the window. Billy’s looking at them like they’re the cutest things he’s ever seen, and they are, but Steve only has eyes for him. 

Billy looks at him, then back down at the kittens. “Can I-? I just think we should get a kitten, babe.”

Technically, they’re not supposed to have a pet in their dorm, but if anyone could get away with it, it’s Billy. 

“Okay,” Steve says. “I’ll wait out here.”

Billy’s smile seems to light up the entire world. “I’ll be quick, I-”

Steve cuts him off with a gentle, open-mouthed kiss. He cups Billy’s face and tilts his head, and thinks about the taste of apple cider on his tongue and the snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. Billy pulls back until just their noses are touching, and then he kisses Steve’s cheek and heads inside the pet store. 

Steve’s leaning against the building, hands shoved in his pockets to stay warm, when he hears someone calling his name. He turns and squints, tries to see who it is, but it’s dark and the streetlights aren’t helping very much. 

“Hey!” It’s Nancy, waving frantically and speed-walking, one hand keeping her coat closed tight. “Steve! Hi!”

Steve waves back. “Hey, Nance.”

Jonathan’s behind her. He nods at Steve and smiles; he’s holding a bag of takeout. Nancy lets out a relieved sigh and pulls Steve in for a hug. Her hair is shorter than he remembers it, artfully messy and barely brushing her shoulder, and the tips are blonde. She looks really, really beautiful. Like she always has, but now she’s more… alive. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are red, and her eyes are bright. She looks happy. Steve hopes she is. 

“I didn’t know you were coming home,” Nancy says, still smiling. 

Steve doesn’t mention that Hawkins doesn’t really feel like home anymore, that he feels like, instead of coming back to it, he  _ found _ it, in Billy. “I meant to tell you,” he says. “I just. I got caught up and, uh.”

Nancy waves her hand dismissively. “Well, I’m just glad to see you again. It’s been too long, Steve. Are you- no, you’re probably busy tomorrow. Do you want to get coffee sometime? So we can catch up?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He nods at Jonathan. “You too, Byers.”

Jonathan laughs. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Great!” Nancy beams. Steve likes seeing her this happy. “And then you can tell me all about California and Billy and-” She pauses to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. “Have you made any progress? With him?”

Steve lets out a breath and glances back at the pet store - he can see Billy through the window, smiling at the kitten in his hand like it’s the absolute light of his life, like it’s the only good thing in this world. He’s all soft now, and the lights paint him gold, and he’s so adorable, Steve thinks he might melt. He wouldn’t trade this for anything. Not the snow, not the cold, not Hawkins itself. He wouldn’t trade any of it, because Billy’s here, and he makes everything okay. He’s Steve’s west coast, his home, his whole entire world. 

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says, ducks his head because he knows he’s blushing and grinning like an idiot. “I have.”

When they’d left Los Angeles, and the sky was still blue and the air was warm, all Steve thought about was how much he couldn’t wait to get back to California. How he dreaded going back to Indiana, how he just wanted to get it over with so he could go back to the beach and Westwood and the comfort of his dorm. 

He isn’t in a rush to leave, now. He doesn’t mind the dull grey sky and the barren trees and the dinner he’ll have to sit through tomorrow. Because he has Billy, and his smile and his laugh and his cuddles, and it’s the only thing that matters. It’s home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs mentioned in this chapter (in order):  
rock you like a hurricane - scorpions (Rock You Like A Hurricane is blasting through Steve's phone...)  
i know a place - muna (Their conversation fades, and Katie Gavin croons in the background...)  
jungle - saint mesa (Steve doesn't know how much time has passed...)  
take me home - ingrid michaelson (He wonders, as Take Me Home plays through the speakers...)  
the 1975 - the 1975 ("This isn't even a fucking song," Billy complains...)  
the few things - jp saxe ("Better?" Steve asks...)  
i'll be back someday - tegan and sara (I'll Be Back Someday comes on...)  
carmelo - holychild ("Robin says you dress like a lesbian," Steve says...)  
love song - tesla ("So, um," Steve says, voice a little hoarse...)  
love me tender - elvis presley (They stop at a diner in Oklahoma City for lunch...)  
made for you - alexander cardinale ("You must still really love her," Billy says..)  
chateau - angus & julia stone (Chateau plays softly as they head back onto the highway...)  
blue eyes - elton john (It's the kind of place Steve thinks he might have seen in some indie film...)  
i melt with you - modern english (Steve's been zoning in and out for the past hour...)  
the four horsemen - metallica (It's quiet, except for the rumbling of the engine and Metallica...)  
there's still a light in the house - valley (Hawkins is darker than Steve remembered...)
> 
> you can find steve's playlist [ here ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3gHrujabMix52PGra1xP7C?si=7_orhjvMR8mzIGzbDUlO7A)! 
> 
> and i'm on [ tumblr ](http://babyhargrove.tumblr.com) as always! come say hi, i love talking to you guys! :)
> 
> all comments and kudos are always appreciated <3

**Author's Note:**

> songs mentioned in this chapter (in order):  
hallowed ground - bishop briggs (He presses play as Billy backs out of the parking lot...)  
the archer - taylor swift (Billy gasps. "Is that Taylor Swift?")  
king of nothing - grayson dewolfe (It hadn't occurred to him that Billy, who's smarter than he lets on...)
> 
> if you want to listen to steve's playlist, you can find it [ here ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3gHrujabMix52PGra1xP7C?si=fkHzU1CyRqCd11ne3EEG6A)!
> 
> the next chapter will probably be up tomorrow! i'm on [ tumblr ](http://babyhargrove.tumblr.com) \- come say hi! :)


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